The Mistake

I never made it to the University of Alaska.  I didn’t even finish high school.  When Eastwood died, I checked out.  I lost interest in living.  Toys in the attic.  I went crazy.

 

If it wasn’t for people like Mrs. Nagel and some of Eastwood’s friends, my uncle wouldn’t have had a funeral.  I was in no condition to arrange anything.  I was almost catatonic, and very drunk, at the burial.  I stayed drunk until I ran out of Eastwood’s liquor.

 

When I sobered up, I decided I wanted more alcohol.  I was too young to buy it legally.  It was not for sale in Wales, at any rate.  I filled the back of the pickup truck with tools, put some weapons behind the seat, and took off for Nome.  There are no roads for much of the journey.  The oversized tires and four-wheel drive on Eastwood’s truck made it possible to travel on the slushy, narrow trails.  More than once, I had to stop and use the winch to pull the truck through a mud hole.  But I’d done this before.  This was the trail Eastwood and I took, every summer, when we went south to buy firewood.

 

The trip was long and it was past midnight when I rolled into Nome.  If I had taken my time, and planned the mission using the skills Eastwood had taught me, I would have figured out how to rob the liquor store without getting caught.  I was in no mood for taking my time or planning.  It did not take long to secure the chain around the doorknob in the alley behind the store, and attach it to the bumper of the truck.

 

I put my foot on the accelerator.  The door flew off and clanged on the ground. The alarm sounded.  I pulled the chain loose, ran into the store, and grabbed a case of rum.  I got in the truck and took off.  I could hear the police siren as I drove off.

 

I knew I had to keep moving, so I opened one of the bottles and started taking shots while I drove.  I was twenty minutes out of Nome when I took a turn too fast.  There are few guardrails on the roads of northwestern Alaska.  The truck slid down the embankment and came to rest against some trees.  Climbing up the slippery bank would have been difficult if I had been sober.  And if I didn’t have a bottle of rum in one hand.  But I made it up to the road, and began walking toward Wales.

 

I was too drunk to run, and too drunk to fight, when I saw the flashing blue lights come up behind me.  I would spend the next six months in the Territorial Jail in Nome.

 

Most of that time I spent brooding.  I didn’t say much.  I could sum up that part of my life as “I don’t give a s**t.”  But circumstances forced me out of my self-pity every now and then.  Like in the holding cell, after I’d had a few hours to sober up.  I could tell the half-drunk cowboy was trouble as soon as the deputy locked him in.  It was his misfortune to challenge me.  He was bigger than me, and built like a weightlifter.  I knew I would be faster than him.

 

When he came at me it was a simple matter to move to the side, put my hand on his shoulder, and spin around to his back.  While my legs were locking around his belly, my arms went around his neck.  A standard rear naked choke.  The man hit the ground when he passed out.  I let go when the deputy banged his nightstick on the bars and said, “Stop that or you’ll get a face full of pepper spray.”

 

Eastwood had doused me more than once with pepper spray during my training.  I had learned how to maintain my focus and continue fighting, even when my eyes wanted to clench shut and were streaming tears from the powerful chemical.  But Eastwood wasn’t there.  I let go of the man and made sure he started breathing.

 

People talk in prison.  That was the only time anyone messed with me during my stay at the Big T.  That was the slang name for the old prison building.  Mostly I kept to myself and only spoke when there was a reason.

 

Likewise, I didn’t have much to say to the judge at my sentencing.  I was surprised when he told the deputy to take off my handcuffs and leave him and me alone in his office.  He was an elderly man and would be no match for me.  But when he looked me in the eye, it felt the same as when Eastwood looked at me.  I sat in the chair when he told me to sit.

 

He said, “Son, I’ve been a judge for a long time.  This isn’t the first time I’ve sat across this desk from a troubled young man from Wales.  I had to go through the records to find the date.  It was July 18^th, 1970.  A retired soldier got drunk and got in a fight in one of our nightclubs.  He put four men in the hospital.  When I look at you sitting in that chair, I see a younger version of that man.  I called him Edward.  You knew him by his nickname.  Eastwood.”

 

“I had an interesting conversation yesterday with Roberta Nagel.  She said she thinks of you like a son.  She also said the look on your face since your uncle died terrifies her.  She didn’t disagree when I suggested you need to spend some time locked up.  For your own good.”

 

“So I’m going to give you a choice.  You can agree to spend six months locked up in the Big T, or take your chances with a trial and a jury of your peers.  After what you did, you could spend a couple of years in the state penitentiary.  So, what do you think?”

 

I looked at the judge.  “What you said sounds okay to me.  I just want to go back to my cell.”

 

The judge had one more thing to say.  “I want you to know, I crossed paths with your uncle a number of times after he and I spoke in this office.  He got past the turmoil and confusion he experienced after he retired.  He was one of the finest men I have ever known.  I cannot imagine how much you miss him.  But you are not the only one.”

 

My stay at the Territorial Jail went by in a blur.  I sat on the bunk in my cell, ate three times a day, showered, and went to the bathroom.  I might have as well have been in a coma.

 

The day they released me, the clerk handed me a paper bag.  It had the clothes I was wearing when I was arrested.  Someone had washed and folded them.  An envelope contained my wallet, a comb, and some coins.  Aside from my driver’s license, there was a five dollar bill in the wallet.

 

When they told me to go to the visitor’s lobby to meet my ride, I had no idea who had come to pick me up.  I had been spending my time mastering the art of not thinking about other people.  Self pity is a powerful motivator.  It made sense when I saw Roberta and Kenneth Nagel. 

 

Kenneth had the tow company in Nome pull Eastwood’s truck back up to the road.  Aside from scratches and a few dents, it was in running order.  They had driven it from Wales to Nome to get me.  Kenneth handed me the keys.  Roberta hugged me and said, “I love you, Evan.  I want you back.”

 

The ride back to Wales was slow.  It was January and ice was everywhere.  I stayed in the groove worn by the others who used the trail.  But there had been fresh snow since the last vehicle passed.  Kenneth got out several times to hook up the winch. 

 

Mrs. Nagel did most of the talking on the trip home.  “Evan, I met your uncle the first day he moved to Wales.  Then, he wasn’t like the man you knew.  You may not realize it, but you were the best thing that ever happened to him.  He used to do a lot of hard drinking and other things a man shouldn’t do.  All of that changed when you came to live with him.  I can’t remember how many times he sat at in my kitchen, asking me questions about how to raise a child.  He told me, trying to be your father figure scared him more than anything he ever faced in Korea or Vietnam.”

 

“You can take the rest of your final exams any time you like.  You’ve earned your diploma.  And one other thing.  Ken and I talked it over.  We have an extra bedroom.  We’d like for you to move in with us.  I could use a teaching assistant, and you are really good at math and science.  Please think it over.”

 

I promised I would consider her offer.  When we got to Kingkinkgin road, I pulled into their driveway to let them out.  I headed up Winter Trail to Eastwood’s house.  My house, now.

 

I woke up early the next morning.  I kept staring at the backpack leaning against the wall in my room.  I hadn’t touched it since my vision quest.  After the long journey I was physically spent.  By the time I had recovered, I was studying for final exams.  Then…I didn’t want to think about what happened next.

 

I ate breakfast, and couldn’t stop thinking about the backpack.  I knew what I was going to do.  I emptied the pack of anything I wouldn’t need.  I gathered supplies and carefully refilled the compartments.  On this journey, I will not have an umiak to help bear the weight of my supplies.

 

Nights are long in January in Wales, Alaska.  It was still dark when the pickup approached the Nagel’s house.  I cut off the engine, killed the lights, and coasted into their driveway.  I left the keys in the ignition, and placed the note I had written on the seat.  “Dear Roberta and Kenneth.  Thank you for everything you did for Eastwood and myself.  I would like for you to keep the truck.  I will not need it where I am going.”

 

Mrs. Nagel had taught me that the Clovis people crossed the ice from Siberia to Alaska about 10,000 years ago.  They are the ancestors of the Inuit I had grown up around.  The ancestors of the Native Americans that would eventually populate North America, centuries before the white man arrived. 

 

On weekends and during summer breaks, when weather permitted, Eastwood and I were always outdoors.  He had a way of turning everything into a game.  My first summer in Alaska, I helped my uncle place large rocks across a shallow stream on our hiking route.  The lesson for the day was “how to build a bridge.” 

 

But we didn’t walk across our bridge like other people would.  We played a game.   I’d get a running start and jump across every other rock.  With his adult sized legs, Eastwood could skip two rocks at a time.  Like everything else we did, the rock skipping game was dangerous.  Even more so carrying a full backpack.  Any misstep could turn into a broken ankle or a concussion.  The thought of failure never crossed my mind.  I knew I could do anything if Eastwood said I could do it.

 

A few hundred feet behind the Nagel’s house is the Bering Strait.  This time of year, most of the 60 miles from there to Cape Dezhnev, Siberia is covered with thick ice.  But unless it is unusually cold, the ice is not continuous.  Typically, the strong current in the Bering Sea keeps channels open at various places.  Chunks of ice of all sizes break off from the edges and float in the channels.  The icebergs slowly move around in the current, and bounce off of each other.

 

I was thinking about the rock skipping game, and icebergs in the Bering Sea, when I slipped on the backpack.  I began walking west.