ALASKA: Confronted by a drunken truth teller

A delicate topic we've been dancing around

I lay as still as a stone in the darkness, listening to her yell at me. Her daughters had stepped between us and held her back, supporting and redirecting her unsteady steps toward a natural hedgerow of shrubby trees. Had she seen me climb up into Walter?

It was after midnight, but this close to solstice, the sky would have barely qualified for twilight. My bright mustard yellow coat probably stood out like a ray of midnight sun. I should have removed the jacket while I’d had the chance, when I was briefly shrouded by that row of trees. With two quick tugs of the sleeves, I could have turned it inside-out to its turquoise blue lining. I had considered that option; I’d even unzipped. But ultimately, concerned that the extra movement might draw attention, I left the coat on, hands jammed in my pockets, and continued to walk—briskly—over the uneven river rocks back to our big yellow truck.

As I climbed the steps, I risked a quick glance back over my shoulder toward her. Although her angry voice could likely be heard by most of the campers spread thinly across the wide delta, I couldn’t see her face. Hopefully, that meant she couldn’t see me, either.

The only light inside Walter’s Snuggery (the habitation box of our rig) shone weakly from my little clip-on reading light, still affixed to the fat novel I’d left next to my pillow. Our window shades were already drawn, our skylight closed in a feeble attempt to trick our bodies into believing it was late at night. In the darkness, I double checked the door lock, then gathered my breath to tell my husband what had happened. I had to pause several times and place a hand against my chest, trying to coax my heartrate back down a few notches.

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Prior to that moment, it had been an incredibly peaceful wild camping site.

Roughly two dozen vehicles—Sprinter vans, small RVs, pickup trucks with campers or rooftop tents, SUVs—were sprinkled over a vast gravelly landscape, a wide swath of empty riverbed large enough to house the mighty Mississippi, crisscrossed with shallow ravines and dotted with informal stone fire rings and spots of greenery. Perhaps in the heaviest of spring runoff several of the channels are filled in, and at some time back in the geological record it must have been an enormous waterway. But this week, only one small stream ran through the flat-bottomed valley between the abrupt walls of lush green peaks, each one topped with a heavy hand of snow whose fingers reached down between the ridges.

We had enjoyed a campfire and a dinner of freshly caught fire engine-red Sockeye salmon with some friends. Then, we’d settled into our respective rigs for a good night’s sleep before our anticipated day of fishing together.

As usual, Andy and I had stayed up too late, but just as we were about to call it a night, lively music began to blare from one of our neighbors nearby. It’s not an official campground of any kind, so there are no posted quiet hours in this wild corridor on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula, but a midnight dance party was not exactly what we’d had in mind. I supposed the other campers nearby felt the same.

I waited ten minutes. Perhaps they just hadn’t noted the late hour—the lack of darkness still catches us by surprise sometimes. Maybe someone else nearby would speak up. Maybe they would notice that every other campfire had been extinguished, and every other rig was buttoned up for the night.

Nope. None of the above.

I climbed back out of bed, slipped on my shoes, and pulled my yellow jacket over my pajamas. “I’m going to go check out the scene,” I said. “I’ll be nice,” I added.

Walking straight toward the sound of music¹, I found the source about fifty meters away: a pickup truck without a camper parked beside a compact sedan, a white pop-up canopy tent sheltering a table full of snacks, and an assortment of camp chairs around a crackling fire. But no one was sitting at the fire. Several young women, one cradling a blanketed bundle, were dancing and singing along with the tunes pumping from a small tabletop speaker. They didn't appear to be camping, just locals blowing off steam on a Saturday night.

One of the women saw me walking toward them and met me at the edge of their set-up. Her eyes flashed with humble recognition of what my visit might be about.

“Oh! Is our music too loud?”

I smiled, trying to keep the confrontation somehow non-confrontational. “Well, I was just wondering what to expect, since most of us . . .” I gestured a small circle toward the other camper vehicles nearby. “. . . are already headed to bed.” I continued smiling, trying to be nonchalant. “It’s not that big of a deal, but I’m just wondering how long you think it might continue.”

“I can totally turn it down a bit, if that would help.” Her tone was mildly apologetic, her face friendly. It was exactly the result I’d hoped for.

“Thanks. I’d really appreciate it, if you don't mind.”

“Absolutely. No problem.”

“Thank-you.” As she turned toward the table, I called out with one more friendly bit of personal connection. “Is that your baby?”

She turned back, grinning, and held the blanketed bundle where I could see a tiny red-brown face sleeping peacefully. “Yes, he’s mine.”

“Aw, so tiny! How old?”

“He’s two months.” Her face beamed with new-mom pride.

“What a sweetie! What’s his name?”

She told me the baby’s name. We both smiled at each other. I thanked her again and she apologized again and I told her it was no problem again and she said she’d turn it down again. I smiled and started to turn and go again, pleased that my mission had been accomplished in the best possible way.

But just then, as the music dropped in volume, the others at the little party woke up to what had just occurred at the outer edge of the circle.

I heard a different young woman ask, “Why? Isn't it Saturday night?”

Then the voice of a momma bear exiting her den hit me in the back of the head. “It’s Saturday night! Hey!” she called, with an authority in her voice that spun me right round, baby, right round.

She looked to be about my age, rimless glasses and thick waves of salt and pepper curls cascading over the collar of her coat. Her build was sturdy, as if she was no stranger to hard physical work.

“It’s Saturday night!” she repeated, then she paused to size me up. “Look at you with your white skin.” She lurched toward me with two short, staggering steps.

At this, two of the young women leapt toward her, each taking one of her arms.

“Mom, you're drunk,” one of them mumbled to her softly.

The woman with the baby in her arms turned to me, her face streaked with embarrassment as she struggled to remain between her mother and me. “I’m sorry. She’s drunk.”

I half-smiled, nodded, and shrugged in one quick acknowledgement, then turned to go again.

“Look at me!” The mama bear roared.

I turned again, a tingle shooting up my spine.

“Mom,” one of the girls chided gently, still holding one arm as her mother wrenched the other arm free to point to her own face.

“Look at my face. I’m brown as hell.”

“Ok, mom.”

“I’m brown! You white lady come over here telling us to turn our music down on a Saturday night? We’re supposed to turn our music down for YOU?” Her words came out like a spray of rubber bullets.

“Mom!”

“This place doesn’t belong to YOU. This is OUR land.”

“I’m really sorry. She’s drunk.”

Even with a daughter holding onto each of her two arms, she still managed to spread them open, palms up, and nodded toward the beautiful landscape plainly visible all around us. Her jaw was carved from the same granite as the cliffs, her face turning redder by the moment as she got warmed up. She turned back to me, shoulders rigid, arms spread wide.

“This is MY land. Who are YOU to tell me what to do on MY land? Turn my music down on a Saturday night? Who are YOU with your white skin? This is MY land!”

Her feet tried to advance toward me, but she stumbled. The young women caught her outstretched arms and shuffled her toward a row of wispy young trees and bushes, leafed out to form a lime green curtain between us.

“This is MY land!”

I saw my opportunity and quickly pivoted back toward Walter, walking quickly, but abstaining from appearing afraid.

“Mom! Calm down.”

“No! I won’t calm down! This is MY land!”

Although I couldn’t see her as I hopped up the steps and into the Snuggery, closing the door softly behind me, I could feel her arms open wide and her chin jutting proudly into the air. I slipped out of my coat and shoes, checked the door lock, and climbed up into bed. The music drifted again through the walls, back to its previous volume.

“No success, huh?” Andy asked, unaware of what was going on.

The mother’s voice was muffled but still carried easily into our little home on wheels—though only I could make out the words she had on repeat.

“This is MY land!”

“She’s still going,” I breathed to him, my voice barely above a whisper. “That’s for me. She’s yelling at me.”

“What? Who’s yelling at you? Why?”

“Well,” I started, trying to keep my voice light, “I had a bit of an adventure.”

He looked up from what he was doing. “Oh, yeah? What happened?”

As my heart rate returned to something closer to normal, I realized it wasn’t important to whisper, and I relayed the whole experience to Andy. Throughout my retelling, I could still hear her voice outside.

“This is MY land!”

The sound seemed to move from one place to another. I guessed the girls had let her go and she was stumbling around the rocky riverbed, unsure of which vehicle was mine and covering all her bases by yelling in every direction.

“This is MY land!”

“Do you think she knows where you are?” Andy asked.

“I don’t think so. Her daughters probably pushed her out of my sight intentionally so I could get away.”

“Did you make sure the door is locked?”

“I did. I suppose it was stupid of me to stir things up. I should’ve just let it go.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

He leaned in to kiss me goodnight, then rolled over to sleep. His breathing quickly evened out.

I was not ready to sleep. My mind was on high alert, much as it had been a few days prior, when we’d found a big pile of fresh bear scat on the Hope Point hiking trail, then came across several clusters of trees, scarred with scratches, bits of bark hanging in shreds.

The bear scat on our trail showed a diet of primarily grasses

I considered our vulnerability, parked in the midst of millions of stones, all of them ripe for throwing. My mind flashed back to a similar unnerving experience a few weeks prior. If you missed it, here’s the link:

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Last time it was just a mischievous teenage boy who likely hadn’t thought about the consequences of his actions. This time, the stakes were considerably higher; a woman whose inhibitions were down roamed outside, ready to take out her pent-up frustrations—hundreds of years of mistreatment of indigenous people by white-skinned immigrants—on me. She had plenty of fist-sized rocks at her disposal to throw through windshields. Plus, about two-thirds of Alaskan households possess firearms, and due to the unpredictable behavior of brown bears in wild areas, they often carry them.

I snuggled deeper beneath the blankets and listened, trying to convince my muscles to relax. But each new sound outside set me on edge again.

“This is MY land!”

Should we drive further away from their party in this wide-open expanse? Or perhaps we should leave the riverbed altogether and park in one of the turnouts on the main road. But we were camped with friends, and it was far too late to contact them—unless they were awoken by the loud music and yelling. And anyway, she might see me getting out of the habitat and into the cab. I could wear my red raincoat and a hat and take off my glasses. I doubt a drunken stranger who only saw me for a couple of minutes would recognize me like that.

After a while, her voice disappeared, and the music stopped. I heard a couple of vehicles drive past. Then all was silent. They hadn’t looked set up for camping, just for a little party. Perhaps it was over and they’d gone home.

I lay awake for a bit longer, my brain still active even though my body had finally begun to relax. The problem was, I couldn’t argue with her. She was right. The Far North was her land, their land, the land of the people who had already populated it for thousands of years before European nations tucked napkins into their shirt collars, pulled out their forks and knives, and carved it up like a roasted turkey, tossing what was left of the carcass into a pot to make broth.

Centuries later, with the indigenous population decimated and the American and Canadian consciences pinging, some new legislation was put into place to return large swaths of the land to its original inhabitants. But by that time, much of the fair-skinned population considered those places to be their own ancestral homes, their own sources of natural resources and recreational playgrounds. Returning those lands to aboriginal populations stung and left some folk bitter and frustrated.

The tension continues to simmer to this day, just under the surface. We heard murmurs of the low boil as we traversed for a month across the Canadian West. We’ve occasionally heard some further rattling of the stock pot’s lid since we arrived in Alaska in mid-May.

• Whose land is it?

• Who makes the rules about how it gets divided and how it is then used?

• Whose rights are violated when the decisions fall on this side or that of the cultural divide?

• Does might make right?

• Does the squeaky wheel get the grease? Should it?

It’s a complicated issue—one on which I am in no way an expert—so I’ll not attempt to debate it here. But I can tell you this: the words that echoed in my mind that night as I finally drifted off to sleep were, “She’s right. It’s her land.”

In vino veritas.²

Yes, if there is to be any justice in regard to the overall historical record, this should be her land. She absolutely deserves to not only be here but also use it according to her people’s wishes—even if that is for a midnight dance party with her daughters, their friends, and her new grandbaby.

But according to Alaska’s current laws, it is public land, and I also deserve to be here—without interference or fear. This particular slice of terrain is designated by Alaska’s Department of Natural Resources as a “Special Use Land,” allowing anyone to camp for free for up to eight consecutive days.

This land is your land; this land is my land.

As is the case with many of life’s mysteries, the musical Fiddler on the Roof addresses these concerns at length. Remember the scene when two men are having a public disagreement and the astute mediator seems to agree with both of them, much to the dissatisfaction of the onlookers?

• “He is right AND he is right? They can’t BOTH be right.”

• “You know, YOU are also right.”

The key, both in riverbed camping in Alaska under the Midnight Sun, and in the rest of life—be it Los Angeles, or Washington, D.C., or Palestine—is to find a way to at least strive to coexist in harmony, somehow seeking to protect everyone’s rights as we share this big blue marble. Again, I turn to Fiddler for inspiration:

Za va shas da rovia
Heaven bless you both nazdrovia
To your health and may we live together in peace

May you both be favored with the future of your choice
May you live to see a thousand reasons to rejoice

Za va shas da rovia
Heaven bless you both nazdrovia
To your health and may we live together in peace!

But how do we do it? How do we figure out how to wish the best for each other and promote the well-being of everyone—even when we disagree on the volume and timing, and even the selection of the music—so we can live together in peace?

In the words of Fiddler’s Tevye:

I will tell you — I don’t know.

But I will keep trying anyway. And maybe I will get some earplugs. L’chaim.

The beautiful Hope Point Trail, near Hope, Alaska, on the northern edge of the Kenai Peninsula

Until next week,

Sherry

1. The vibrant mountainsides surrounding our campsite remind us of the overly saturated Technicolor scenes from The Sound of Music, but the sound of music referred to in this post did not make us burst out in joyous song.

2. In vino veritas is a Latin phrase that means, roughly, in wine there is truth. Throughout history, diverse languages from around the world have contained proverbs to the same effect. The implication of them all is strikingly similar: alcohol can loosen a person’s inhibitions to the point where their inner thoughts might leak out. For a fascinating list of these related phrases—along with their translations—click here.