aircraft suddenly braked to a crawl and the pilot steered the plane across the tarmac and then around in a full circle to face the ocean again.
It was a sunny August morning when we pulled to a full stop in front of a small metal building labeled Kodiak Airport. No gangway tunnel pushed out to greet the plane; instead, a rack of stairs wheeled over by the ground crew was clipped to the door.
When the door hatch swung out and up, I gingerly climbed down the ladder in single file with the other passengers, glancing quickly around. The breeze was cool on my face, the air smelled clean and salty. A sort of tangy weedy scent brushed past me as I caught glimpses of green trees and green bushes and green grass. No tall buildings. Not one skyscraper stood in the distance. Just trees, grass, and water everywhere. I continued in line, pulling my carry-on behind me and into the terminal, a building about the size of a two-car garage located seventy-five feet from the plane.
The checked luggage suddenly appeared, one by one, through a plastic-covered opening, and rolled around a small carousel only to disappear again. I quickly snatched my black bag on the second go-around. The other wall held three ticket counters shared by Wein and Pen Air, the only two airlines that served Kodiak. The third wall included the entrance doors, two rental car agents and two restrooms. The fourth wall held a few rows of chairs occupied by those waiting to depart on the same plane. I collected my luggage, walked the thirty feet to the exit doors, and met George coming in.
“Hey, George,” I said, reaching for a hug.
“You made it. Welcome to Kodiak,” said George. He wore a wide grin and pulled me to him, his sky blue eyes bright and shining. His straight blond hair, mostly hidden under a Steelers ball cap, edged over his ears and down his neck to the collar of his red fleece-lined flannel shirt. His matching mustache was neatly trimmed over thin lips and a curly blond beard circled his chin and cheeks, meeting up with longish sideburns framing a pleasing, friendly face.
I followed George over to the cargo entrance of the hangar to pick up Blackie. George carried the dog crate out to a grassy area and opened the kennel. Blackie leaped up and into George’s face with sloppy doggy kisses, then scampered over to the nearest alder bush to do his business. With furious tail wagging and nose snuffling, he was eagerly taking it all in. He seemed a lot more enthusiastic about being here than I did.
Blackie stopped short, turned and bounded back to George, who playfully tousled his ears and ruffled his smooth black fur, delighted to be with his beloved companion after the long separation. I looked on at the happy scene then my eyes shifted around, taking in this strange green wilderness. Cars were quickly leaving the parking lot and only a handful of people loitered about. I fought back the urge to get on the plane and fly back to civilization. But I hated flying.
We walked to the truck, tossed the luggage and dog crate in the back, then the three of us climbed in front and headed out of the parking lot. George turned right, and then took an immediate left heading down a two-lane paved road for about a half mile. The sign read “State Road Maintenance Ends” as we dropped off the ledge of the pavement onto a bumpy potholed dirt road passing a bridge that crossed over the Buskin River. The bushy treed banks revealed glimpses of a fast-moving river about fifteen feet wide running parallel to the road.
After a quarter of a mile, we pulled over into a well-worn parking area and George turned off the truck.
“Let’s go catch a fish.” George said climbing out of the truck.
I missed a couple of beats as my eyebrows shot to the top of my head. “A fish? Now?”
“Yeah, come on. I caught one just before the plane landed. We need to catch one more for dinner tonight,” George announced.
I was dressed in my favorite brown velvet pantsuit with a white silk blouse and matching brown leather pumps. My long brown hair was neatly braided and twisted into a knot on the back of my head for ease of travel, and to ensure I arrived looking my best. Reluctantly, I got out of the truck, toe stepping over puddles and around patches of dark red gunky stains topped with pale fish skeletons of various sizes scattered over the muddy grass.
I reached the other side of the truck and stood watching as George eagerly raced across the road to the riverbank while pushing the two parts of his fishing rod together and clipping on an orange and silver striped lure.
He swung the rod back, jerked it forward, and the lure sailed across the river to just about a foot from the other side and landed with a neat splat. His fingers already working the reel, he glanced back at me and nodded me forward with his head. He turned quickly back and jerked hard one second after the rod tip bowed down, bending almost in half.
The rod continued jerking wildly up and down, the line peeled off the reel and a wave of water surged towards the far side. Several fins rose up out of the water, moving upstream like a herd of small sharks. One large silvery fish leaped into the air, turned his white belly up, twisted around and splashed back down, fighting hard to get free of the hook. George hung onto the rod with both hands, struggling against the leaping fish. His eyes were wide, his jaw clenched and his arms were locked in place. A look of pure glee shown on his face as his feet stammered for a good hold on the sloping rocky riverbank, his hands frantically working the rod and reel, keeping pace with the huge fish.
“Get him,” I shouted, “get him.” I raced across the road and stood on the bank cheering him on. “Get him, Get him.”
He landed the huge fish onto the bank, its slimy, silvery, scaly body flapping and flopping across my shoes. I jumped back but not before my brown velvet pant legs were spattered with salt water, slimy fish scales and mud up to my knees. I pasted a smile on my face before I looked up at George.
“Wow. This fish is huge!” I said. I was shocked. I had never seen such a big fish in my life. And my pantsuit was ruined. The fish lay there flat, thick, and finally dead on the muddy bank. George happily pulled out his knife and sliced the fish from tail to gills, cleaned it out, carried it over to the ice chest and plopped it in. I stared down at the catch of the day -large, shiny, and bloody. My airplane stomach lurched. Dinner?! I hefted a deep sigh and tried to stifle a shudder. I didn’t know what to make of this place.
2 CRABBY
We rented an 850-square foot “cottage” for $850, which thankfully included electricity and home heating fuel – two of the high-cost commodities on the island. Kodiak did not have natural gas. Houses and commercial buildings used diesel fuel to operate boilers, forced-air furnaces or Toyo stoves. Most houses had woodstoves for supplemental heating in the winter, which worked well to stave off the moisture inside caused by the almost continuous rain and snow outside.
Tom was our neighbor, who introduced himself one day holding the largest king crab we had ever laid eyes on. George answered the quick two-rap on the door, pushed back the screen and there stood a solidly built man about five feet ten inches, with shaggy long brown hair, brown eyes, and a thick brown beard. He was dressed in a well-worn plaid flannel shirt and jeans that were wet from the thighs down to his brown rubber boots.
Tom held the crab by its two front legs with his arms stretched wide. The crab hung in a large V, its other four legs dangling down on both sides, almost reaching his knees.
“Hey Georgie.” Tom’s instantly chosen nickname stuck with George for many years to come. “Looky what I got.” We stared at the spiky red and white blotchy creature as its viselike claws clipped menacingly at the air.
He stepped through the door and into the kitchen where he promptly slapped it down on the table, which was thankfully covered with a vinyl tablecloth. The crab sprawled across most of the five feet
