Our niece, Sasha, is a master pumpkin carver. The witch and cauldron is from one of the giant pumpkins grown here on Pentoga Road.

October 31, 2013 – Thursday

48 degrees/foggy/calm

Pentoga Road

The following is a true story. How do I know? I was there.

It first happened while the cabin was under construction. I’d just motored the seventeen miles back upriver from Kotzebue, an Inupiaq Eskimo village, the hub of this Alaskan arctic region, with more building supplies.

As I stopped long enough to wipe my brow and swipe a cloud of mosquitoes away, I turned towards the shell of the cabin sitting atop a large hill fifty yards distant overlooking the river. Standing in an empty window opening, was my friend and Inupiaq brother, Elmer. Ten years my senior, Elmer is short in stature and if ever a stereotypical figure of an Eskimo could be sculpted, it would look exactly like my friend.

Strange, I didn’t see a boat in front of his camp when I’d motored by it earlier. I waved and whistled and hurriedly gathered an armload of supplies before heading up the long hill towards the camp.

I found the cabin empty. It wasn’t like Elmer to come upriver and not stay long enough for a cup of coffee and conversation. He usually brought a surprise, a treat, and I was looking forward to tasting something other than caribou meat or fish.

Hilltop Camp - forty miles north of the Arctic Circle

I saw my brother the next week while in the village and good-naturedly castigated him for his lack of social skills. He smiled and claimed innocence. I was laughing, not believing him, when he held up one hand and quietly said, “Ah, you saw him.”

 “When I was a boy,” Elmer continued, “my grandparents brought me upriver with them to hunt and gather eggs. We would camp where you keep your boat. Often, we would look up on the hill and see the old man standing, watching… as if looking for caribou. He was from the old days when our people wore their clothes with the fur facing in for warmth. This has always been my family’s land and he is one of my grandfathers from ancient times.”

Elmer didn’t joke about serious matters like family lineage and I wasn’t living in my culture. Certainly, I’d been traveling the Arctic long enough to know that the top of the world is a magical place with it’s own set of rules.

The Northern Lights. Look closely enough and you'll see the Big Dipper behind them.

Though not forgotten, the thought of the old man was filed in the back of my mind as I finished the cabin that fall. Winter came and the sun disappeared completely.

It was one evening in January. The thermometer was registering forty-six degrees below zero outside, but the crackling fire in the wood stove kept the inside of my cabin at a comfortable fifty-five degrees. I was reading when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

Teaching my classes 500 miles off the road system using computer/internet via satellite powered completely by solar and wind.

It was the old man, standing in front of the picture window, not over ten feet away, looking out towards the river. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight out and I caught my breath.

What to do? I spoke, softly, “Hello.”

There was no response. Of course there wouldn’t be. He was from thousands of years ago and wouldn’t know English.

“Unnusatkun,” I whispered. “Good evening.”

Still no response.

The old man stood for the longest time peering out the window. At one point, he turned in my direction, but rather than look at me, he looked through me.

“Kinauvin? What is your name?”

Still no response.

I looked away towards the wood stove, gently shook my head, then looked back. The old man was fading away and within seconds, had disappeared completely.

I saw Elmer a few days later.

“The old man was back the other night, inside the cabin, with me.”

Elmer smiled in an elderly way.

“You are fortunate, brother. Appa (Grandfather) likes you. He’s protecting you.”

I grew rather fond of the old man as the years went by. His visits were few, four or five a year. Elmer told me that I should leave him the ultimate Inupiaq gift, that of water. Not that long ago, other than food, water was one of the most valued Eskimo treasures during the winter months. It required that ice or snow be melted over a small seal oil lamp, something that often took hours.

As time went by I got used to leaving out a shallow bowl of water each evening. Though it was never touched, the next morning I’d dump the water and place the bowl on a shelf only to be refilled that evening. It became a ritual.

I hadn’t seen the old man for a long time and I missed him. The thought had just crossed my mind when I looked up and there he was, looking out over the river, towards the foothills of the Brooks Range.

“Unnusatkun,” I whispered. “Good evening.”

This time he did turn and he looked at me, not through me.

I smiled. He smiled, then he turned back to resume looking out the window only to  disappear a few moments later.

Water was poured into the bowl later that evening and put in its customary place upon the counter. I later lay in bed thinking of the old man, the thousands of Inupiaq hunters and families that had traveled over this hill where I’d built my cabin. I felt humbled to share this unspoiled part of Alaska with those who’d gone before.

The next morning dawned clear and cold. I sleepily walked to the wood stove and rekindled the fire then turned towards the counter.

The bowl. It had been moved several inches. More importantly, it was empty.

I felt more humble than ever. To have the simple gift of water accepted was to be accepted.

I’ve not been back to Hilltop Camp for some time, but there’s little doubt in my mind that the old man still occasionally stands at the window looking for caribou. The top of the world is a magical place with it’s own set of rules.

I still wonder; was the ancient Inupiaq hunter visiting my world, or perhaps for a few short years, did I visit his?

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...