Where the Heart Is

Egegik was homespun and wonderful. Wherever the cockles of your heart are, Egegik settles in there pretty quickly.

Weather-wise, it gave us a bit of everything. Our first 12 hours were windy and sandy and dust-stormy, but warm; the second 12 hours were even windier and wet and rainy and cold. Andy and Wendy said that the rougher weather is normal for Egegik.

The reason why Egegik meant something is because we were able to meet person after person who meant something to Andy and Wendy. Eccentric, shy, brash, broken, jovial, grieving, a little bit of everything.

Naknek is a novelty. Egegik is human.

This first picture is one of my favorites from the entire trip so far.

Meet Paul, a quiet, soft-spoken Alaskan, all creviced and years-worn with dimples like canyons and a voice like a panpipe.

He met us at the airport and drove us to the village, where his was the first home we entered. It smelled of age and dust, and it was homely and full of pilled afghans and sunlight-faded art prints. There was a telescope by the seaward window so he could keep an eye on the boats.

Here are Paul and Wendy chatting outside his "igloo." 

Pretty much all the homes in Egegik are really small and unpretentious. They are meant for shelter, for raising a family, but not for impressing anyone. I liked them.

Another little house you can see from Paul's doorway.

Paul's view.

This boat is special. Paul is one of the oldest in Egegik, and he is one of just two who once lived in a  minuscule village not too far away from Egegik. That village began fading into history when he and his father were the last to leave. Paul was a fisherman for 52 years, and he knows his craft. When he got too old to continue on his own, he sold his boat, the Majestic. 

The new owner sails by after each day's fishing and waves heartily at Paul. We timed our visit right. There goes the Majestic!

Paul also let me take a peek into his steam house. Steaming is part of Alaskan culture--it's their way of taking a bath. The best equivalent--although not perfect--is a sauna.

Paul was probably my favorite of all the people we met. He was simple and sincere, and he told stories of how he met Christ and spoke softly of his daughter Jewell who had died of cancer when she was 22, and of his son Mark who died of a brain aneurysm. He's anything but bitter. If anything, grief has made him gentle.

Before we left he gave me a book he'd written, his autobiography. He had recorded tapes of his stories and sent them to a friend, who transcribed them and got it all ready to publish. 

I haven't had a chance to read the book yet, but I'm looking forward to it.

After leaving Paul's, we walked up the Egegik shoreline.

This is Lena's. She's a friend of Wendy's and bustled around getting us towels and keys and all manner of things for our overnight at Andy and Wendy's old house. I think she also had a hand in getting the truck in the second picture for us to use the next day while we were in town. It's one of the brand new "city trucks." [It seems like a misnomer to hear anything in Egegik labeled a "city" anything...] It only had 56 miles on it. None of us had even sat in a vehicle so new. We are Johnsons, after all. We like our vehicles as old as us.

The Egegik church.

Mom bracing against the wind. It was pretty fierce.

Alaska state trooper. He comes to make sure the fisherman have their nets out of the water at the designated time. Greed is the same the world 'round, and the salmon population might be decimated if there weren't strict regulations and friendly copters hovering about.

"The City." [That's what they call their town hall.] This is where villagers vote. They hand you your ballot, you mark your vote, you give it back. 

The one stand of real trees in all Egegik, and it was right behind Andy and Wendy's house for their three years here. Forts, tree houses, and other hijinks in this tiny patch of woods made the strange seem a little more familiar. Other than this, all they have is alder bushes.

The smokehouse Andy and Ethan built.

Andy and Wendy's old house. I felt nostalgic for them, and I haven't even been here before.

The sea-beaten barrel they had to leave behind, with some of the finds that couldn't be stuffed in suitcases.

The old kitchen...

...and living room.

Andy and Mom on the bench he built.

Andy and the kids had planted a real tree before they left. I hope it pulls through.

The village on a once-in-a-blue-moon bright and sunshiny day.

The village school where Andy taught.

The post office.

Andy's stuff all packed away. All his worldly goods are still sitting by the cannery in Egegik because the guy Andy found to take them to Naknek spoke high but didn't deliver. (They might not have their stuff in Naknek for another month.)

Mom in front of the Icicle cannery office.

The cannery. We actually got a tour through the whole thing while we were there, something that Andy and Wendy hadn't even gotten to do when they lived there. This was their first time through, too.  It's quite the operation. My camera died just a few pictures in, but I'm going to snitch Wendy's pictures later so I can show my students all of the things that have to happen in order to produce one little can of salmon.

After the cannery, we went on a road trip. There's only one road to go on outside the village, really, and it's a road to nowhere. 

Tundra.

More tundra.

Going back into the village proper, we passed the sign Aponi made and the boys pounded in as part of a school project.

Parking lot.

By the loading dock.

After a very full 24 hours, we waited at the airport for our bush plane, climbed back in, and flew off. That's Egegik right there. That's all of it, the whole thing.

Our pilot had an interest in how the fishermen were doing. He took us directly over them and we circled for a bit. The small boats (they're actually around 32 feet, most of them) catch the salmon and then bring them back to the tenders, the big boats that collect them.

Up close.

So much to look at.

And a lot to remember that I don't have words to write about just now.