Alaska! Up North and to the Left by Steven Swaks

Author:Steven Swaks [Swaks, Steven]
Format: azw3
Published: 2013-12-04T05:00:00+00:00

The Orphanage

August

The same old crew was back together, the mishandled Amanda, the sweet Cara, the loud Bill, my beloved Lydia, and my humble highness. This time was not about butchering salmon and overstuffing the freezer, especially since Lydia had been on a girl’s fishing trip with the specific instruction to come back with only a single salmon. Our freezer was already overflowing with the tasty fish, and I was confident the rest of the catch could be split among the other sailors. I was wrong. Lydia came back with eight. I guess the other ladies also had their freezers overdosing on kings and silvers. Bethel was overrun by salmon, even the scientists who are supposed to count them -talk about a job!- gave the low life chums away (I always wondered what happened to the kings they caught).

This time, rather than going for another murderous session, we decided to visit the Kwethluk Moravian Children’s Home, better known as the Kwethluk Orphanage. The old orphanage and school were three miles from Kwethluk, upstream on the Kwethluk River. In 1939, Moravian missionaries, already present since the 1880s, opened the orphanage for children who had lost their parents, whether it was from the common tuberculosis outbreak or for any other dramatic reason. Orphans were not the only residents, children from abusive homes landed there, along with undisciplined brats cast away from their own families.

The facility was mostly labeled the orphanage, and for whatever reason, it closed in 1971 and had been left abandoned ever since. For the last four decades, the buildings had been exposed to the elements and the endless Alaskan winters, rotting, falling apart, and mostly forgotten. Many times, especially on my way to Nyac, I had flown over the crumbling structures; it was only a quick glimpse under my wings, an ephemeral sight of fleeing buildings, sheds, a lone church and a network of boardwalks spreading like blood vessels. I could feel history going by, the wrath of discipline and punishment, kids playing and crying, overwhelmed teachers and priests, a whole little world was going by, fading under the weight of time. I had always wanted to visit the orphanage. In a way, it was our own little local museum, a short jump to the past and an open door to the intimate Alaska I loved so much.

The small boat was skimming on top of the water, each wave sending the bow temporarily airborne only to crash right back down into the water. The rhythmic chop was not a problem for any of us, except for Amanda who was going through several shades of green. Out of pure pity, Bill reduced the throttle along with the torture. The experience was exhilarating, the cold and deafening wind blowing by, the intimate unison with nature. Even in the heart of the summer, the temperature was barely in the 70s and dropped well below with the wind chill. Like scared sheep in a barn, the girls huddled together in the back of the boat vainly attempting to stay warm.

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