Arctic Daughter. Jean Aspen

starchy meal when we caught the distinct buzz of an outboard. Very soon a river boat leapt into view, spinning down current. They spotted us and careened rashly shoreward, cutting the motor at the last instant. To my astonishment, the big boat settled gently beside our canoe.

      “Difference between planing and displacement hulls,” Phil answered my surprise. “Besides, he’s not loaded.”

      It was Albert and Jessie out for an evening ride. They were bundled against the wind of travel, and they toiled stiffly up the bank while their handsome young friend fastened the boat. He was introduced to us as John “Sonny” Erick Jr. His long hair was tied back this time with a pink silk scarf. He grinned shyly as I handed him a cup of mint tea.

      “We was a bit worried about you,” Jessie stated, holding her chapped hands out to the blaze of our fire. “Our chief, even, Abraham Christian, he come lookin’ for you last night.”

      “Oh, it takes us awhile.” I smiled sheepishly. “Uh . . . how far is it from here?”

      “I think maybe fifteen miles?” she turned to Sonny and he nodded.

      Fifteen miles! That would take us days! I lifted our little blackened tea kettle from the fire and squatted near the cups, steam drifting back over my hand as I poured. I was embarrassed by our apparent helplessness. “Sugar?” I asked, handing Jessie a scalding mug.

      She spooned it in. “I always like lotta sugar in my tea,” she grinned. “You?” she handed me the bottle.

      “I prefer mine plain,” I lied, thinking about our diminishing supplies.

      The clouds were again closing in. A fine spray of mist prickled my face and soon big drops were dancing in the dust around the fire.

      “We can give you a ride,” Jessie offered, setting her empty cup on the lid of the grub box. “We got lotta room and we just put everything in, your little boat and all.”

      This time we accepted with gratitude and relief. Adding three-quarters of a ton slowed their progress, but we sailed right over riffles and rapids at what seemed an incredible rate to me. I shouted a happy conversation with Jessie above the roar of the engine. Already I had quite forgotten the river. It slipped by with such ease that I was surprised I had ever taken it seriously.

      Morning song of Venetie, the discordant howl of two hundred chained dogs, woke us in our graveyard camp overlooking the Gwich’in Indian village. Beginning like a distant wind, it swept upon us until all was drowned in a rush of voices.

      Phil and I poked among the old grave markers for something to burn as the first guests began arriving, their trudge up the steep hill heralded by renewed howls. We had been assured that it was okay to camp here, for the actual cemetery had been moved because of the encroaching river. Still, there were nervous titters from our visitors about ghosts.

      Our first adult visitor was the ancient patriarch of the prolific Frank family. Slowly he topped the bluff, leaning on a walking stick. He had dressed to greet us in a rumpled, white shirt, black tie, and shiny black suit. He wore glasses and smoked a pipe. Atop his head was a quilted cap with a visor.

      “Hi. I’m Jeanie and this is Phil,” I said. I stuck out my hand and grinned. He touched it politely, smiled, and glanced away.

      “I’m Johnny Frank,” announced the bandy-legged little man. He pointed to the cabin where he lived with his wife, Sarah. Accepting the cup of sugary tea, he sat cross-legged in the dust by our fire. In broken English, Johnny Frank answered questions and told us stories while children shrilled and giggled in waves about us. He said that few in the village had been far up the river, saying, “Nobody walk no more.”

      “Tell us about the river,” I persisted.

      “Many year now I have not go there.” He brushed mosquitoes from his leathery neck with a small, dark hand and smiled winningly. His worn suit seemed in keeping with his personal dignity as he sat amicably in the dirt by our breakfast fire. “Too many rock, I tell you. Too fast that river.” He shook his wrinkled head at some memory. “You can’t take no boat there, I tell you that. Why you want to go?”

      “We like the woods,” I answered.

      He nodded eagerly in agreement. “Trapline. Lotta fur sometime. Sometime no good. That lynx, you catch him, maybe he plenty good sometime. Two year ago, rabbit everywhere,” he extended his small arms to encompass the village. “Oh, plenty lynx that time,” he beamed. “But nobody trap too much now. They just wait for Native checks. No good, them people now days,” he declared, clamping his jaw shut. “Drink, all the time drink! This a dry village. You know what that mean? Nobody supposed to drink here. But they go down to Fort Yukon and bring it back, then everybody drink. Drink and fight! Drink and fight. No good. God as my witness, I never drink, not one time, and now I ninety-one years old. I work when I was young and I know what my life was for. What they live for? To drink and then shoot each other!”

      “Gran’pa present,” a child tugged at his sleeve. Old Johnny Frank smiled angelically. “All my gran’kids love me and my great-gran’kids,” he proclaimed. From his pocket he fished out a crisp dollar. A rush ensued, and soon the kids were off down the hill to buy candy and tobacco at the village store. “My gran’son, you know him? He get lotta moose last winter with the snow-go. In the village, everybody eats lotta moose then. In Fort Yukon, they got freezers so they just keep their own moose, just hide it, put it away.”

      By our third day in the village we knew almost every adult on sight and a good many by name. There were perhaps 120 people and they were friendly and curious about us. We met Jessie returning from the airstrip and the daily mail plane. Phil was carrying boxes of welfare food for one of the larger Frank families. There were no vehicles, or even roads, in town. Followed by skipping children, we dropped off the groceries and trailed after Jessie back to her cabin, each chewing on an apple.

      As we passed the last cabin, an ancient woman, bent double and nearly blind with the seasons, hailed us from her yard. “You want come in for white-fish? I just got good whitefish.” Her cabin was large and well-tended with wood stacked before her door by neighbors. The small village retained its sense of community: sometimes petty and gossipy perhaps, like any group of people living together, but still a unit that cared about its members. Remarkably, we were included and had been given food and support, though we had little to offer in return.

      “No thank you, Grandmother,” I called to her. “I will come visit you this evening.”

      The path wound among broken and discarded equipment and the inevitable skinny dogs. Here was a culture that for years had been supported by the government. People who once lived happily with few possessions had discovered the toys of civilization. It seemed to me that by comparing themselves with others, they had also discovered poverty. I knew that it was not a simple problem. The land, which once supported migratory bands of Indians who starved when game was scarce, could not sustain a growing population. They couldn’t go back, any more than we could return to the days of covered wagons, yet moving to cities meant giving up village support and their way of life.

      My eyes lingered covetously on the Jon boats tied along shore. How would we make it into the mountains before winter? We had offered to buy the needed fifty-five gallons of gas for anyone who would transport us upstream to the abandoned gold town beyond the first fork of the river, but no one stepped forward and daily the river level dropped, making upstream travel more difficult.

      Jessie and Albert’s cabin was constructed of unpeeled, green-cut logs and papered inside with stained cardboard and pictures cut from magazines. Because Jessie held the dual positions of village health aid and post mistress, the cabin was a hub of activity throughout the day. The main room was divided by a high, linoleum-topped counter. Behind the counter were a propane stove, cupboard,