Arctic Daughter. Jean Aspen

to speak.

      I explained our plans to him, feeling foolish. It was obvious, even to me, that we didn’t really know what we were doing. At length the old gentleman ventured tactfully, “It’s a very fast river. Many rocks.”

      “How will we find it?” I asked, eager to meet someone who had actually been there. We had imagined ourselves drifting downstream until we spotted the tributary entering from the north, but were beginning to realize the complexity of the Yukon.

      “That side,” he motioned with the flat of his hand. “You stay always that side.”

      The boat shot by again and I stared at the rocking canoe in hypnotic fascination, afraid it would sink before the town.

      “Abraham Christian,” he answered when I asked his name. He lived in a Native village in the mountains, and had come down the river to visit friends in Fort Yukon. Could we buy gas there? Yes.

      “How far is it to your village?”

      He shrugged. “One drum of gas.”

      Fifty-five gallons. How could we have forgotten that map? I chided myself. The one we had began in the mountains.

      The Indians returned, swinging recklessly into the tethered boats that shied and bucked in ringing confusion. Abraham turned contemptuously to stare at the fish wheel as it creaked through endless cycles.

      “Why do they keep a fish wheel here?” I inquired of his austere back, my mind still on food. “If this isn’t a good place?”

      He glanced at me in amusement, then dropped his gaze. “Tourists.”

      Before long Phil returned, surprising me with an expensive cola and a drooping chocolate bar. Then he took my seat on the grass while I set off to explore.

      Fort Yukon was a shantytown of variety: sagging cabins, oil drums, and new pickup trucks—even though there were only a few miles of road. A horse-drawn road grader rusted beside the pieces of a modern one. A discarded bicycle lay in a heap of cans and bottles. Racks of moose antlers were nailed over doorways. And everywhere were playing children and chained dogs.

      A flavor of leisure wafted from the dusty roads. It seemed an easy integration of life styles and cultures. There were a few modern government buildings including a Native Center where people could wash clothes or see a movie, but the rest of the town lacked indoor plumbing. The town’s electric generator supplied power to homes, however water was delivered by truck to white and Native alike.

      Thoughtfully I circled back to Phil, the canoe, and the shimmering plain of river.

      “You look as melted as the chocolate,” I said, coming up behind him.

      “All done?” he asked, getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers. “Get some pictures?”

      I nodded.

      “Let’s get going.”

      The Indians were still cavorting in the skittish boats. Standing there, I was inspired to sneak a photo of them. “Go ahead,” I heard my mother’s voice from somewhere in my past, “get the picture. You’ll never see these people again.” Covertly I aimed my telephoto in their direction only to confront a dark face scowling back up the lens at me. Unsteadily the men boiled from the boat and surged up the bank. A pockmarked face pushed close, raging, “God-damn, smart-ass tourists!”

      The man was short and heavy with a mop of black hair overhanging muddy eyes, bleary with drink. I caught a look of helpless anger as his face withdrew.

      This was our introduction to Albert and Jessie Williams of Venetie. My mother was wrong about not seeing them again. I was to find that you never really leave your past behind.

      The following morning I lay quietly under damp folds of down listening to the soft music of rain on the tent fly and ignoring the demands of my bladder. Light coming through the nylon of our orange pup tent was subdued by a low overcast. With his back to me, Phil was propped on one elbow, leafing through our bird book.

      “Well, it’s ten o’clock,” I said. “I suppose we ought to get up.”

      We were clothed in the night things we would wear all summer—I in light pajamas, he in a T-shirt and underpants. The cramped tent was humid from our breathing; the waterproof floor, cold and slippery where it protruded from under the Ensolite pad. Phil stretched and slid his book into the journal box (an army ammunition case) and snapped the lid shut. Then he wriggled deep into our zipped-together sleeping bags and ran his cold hands up my back.

      “Well, what do you want to do? Get wet or starve?” I asked.

      He cocked his head and listened. “I really don’t think it’s raining that hard.”

      “Maybe. But just think of the soggy bushes out there.” I rolled over and snuggled my behind into the curve of his stomach and legs. My back ached from lying down. “What say you volunteer to dig out the wool shirts?”

      The day before we had entered a small slough that slithered for miles into the forest. Here we decided to try our gill net. After pitching camp, we chose a spot and (for want of a better idea) cut a pole, looped the net over it, and pushed it out from shore.

      “Come on. Here’s your shirt,” Phil said as he slid back into the bags and plastered his wet feet on my calves. “Water’s up since yesterday. Don’t you want to see if we caught any fish? Maybe the net’s solid with them.”

      The scratchy wool felt good as I dressed in the confined tent while Phil curled out of the way. I reached outside for my boots, which were upended under a corner of the rainfly, and crawled out of the tent. I emerged into a gray and scented world of bugs, where bird calls echoed between black-trunked trees. Clouds clung to the ground in tenuous trails, hiding even the direction of the sun. I sniffed deeply of dripping forest and poplar smoke as I knelt on the bit of sloping mudbank to start a fire. It was a good day to lie low, for out in the channel small whitecaps crowded before a blustering wind.

      There were indeed fish that morning: three scaly suckers. Flavorless, mushy creatures with numerous forked ribs, they nevertheless bolstered our spirits, for they were our first catch. Soon the rain returned, splattering cold drops into our tin plates. We ate and returned to bed. Lying fitfully within the sticky bags, we read aloud until nearly midnight.

      The next day was not favorable for travel either. A high overcast chilled the drab sky from which a cold western wind descended to kick up waves. Still, we regretted every lost day. After another fishy breakfast we packed our outfit and set off.

      Even on the slough, water slopped more than occasionally over the gunwale as we crept along. Although we had eaten some of our supplies, we were still riding dangerously low. When we reentered the main Yukon we motored quietly a few feet from shore. The sullen, rushing river, as faceless as the gray sky, now seemed malevolent as big waves built up over miles of open water. The river was peppered with large islands, some distinguishable from shoreline only at close range, where narrow channels were sucked off between trees. Here the relentless current smashed, piling up debris on the headlands in a deadly trap.

      Again the shore opened ahead. Beset with indecision, we watched the crisis approaching. Which way? Should we risk a small channel that could meander for miles, perhaps losing itself in thickets and logjams, or stick with the main channel and chance missing our chosen river? We had almost decided to avoid this little offshoot when Phil spotted geese. By the time he had photographed the departing birds, we found ourselves dragged sideways into the channel.

      Thus two accidents, a stiff breeze and a flock of geese, charted our course. The river we sought collides with the Yukon in a confusion of arms, most of which would have added greatly to our journey (had we found them at all). But nature had provided a way, a wandering, secret way, to enter miles above that tangle—and somehow we found it.

      Our