The "road" to Egegik

 The ad I had seen in the local newspaper kept manifesting itself in my mind, despite all rational effort to ignore it.

"Make $$$ in Alaska this summer."

Working in a fish processing plant sounded disgusting. But then again, so did a summer job at the local gas station in suburban Ohio. So, against my better judgement, I paid fifty dollars for a catalog containing a comprehensive listing of Alaska companies hiring seasonal workers. 

I sent out no less than twenty resumes, and started receiving rejection notices almost immediately. All of them began with the same line: "Due to the unusually high volume of applications this year, blah blah blah..." Disappointed, I began to mentally prepare for a two and a half-month stint emptying trash, stocking shelves, and giving free counseling to the hapless drunken souls, who would inevitably frequent my convenience store during third shift. 

Finals week came, bags were packed, bus ticket from Portales, New Mexico to Dayton, Ohio was purchased. I was resting in the dorm between exams when the phone rang.

A young woman's voice hesitantly broke through the static, and informed me she was calling from the Woodbine Alaska Fish Company in Egegik, on the shores of Bristol Bay. She could offer me a starting date in three weeks. I was ecstatic, although the woman seemed less so. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "This is a very remote location. I was actually in culture shock when I got here." 

I chuckled and told her I would be fine, but appreciated the caveat. 

When my bus rolled into Dayton the following week, I had the sad task of informing my beleaguered parents that my visit would be around two weeks, instead of two months. They took it in stride, but as I was making travel arrangements to Egegik, the young woman's words haunted me. "Cincinnati to Seattle to Anchorage to King Salmon to Egegik?" I confirmed with the agent. Seemed remote, all right.

The days sped by, and I found myself standing in front of my father at the airport in Cincinnati (actually in Covington, Kentucky) where he had picked me up less than a year ago when I had come home from Brazil. Instead of my red college backpack, he had given me his military duffel bag, which held infinitely more items. It was necessary, as I would be returning straight to New Mexico from Alaska, therefore carrying most of my clothes. My arms were already starting to ache.

I bid him farewell, and the next eight or so hours were a blur of takeoffs, landings, and waiting in airport terminals. It was nearly 11 p.m. as we approached Anchorage. The sky was a gentle purple hue as the plane flew low over mottled black mountains covered with snow, looking like so many giant slumbering dairy cattle. My flight to King Salmon would not depart until the next morning, so I had a welcome respite at the Puffin Inn, a modest but adequate little motel close to the airport. 

"This really is the land of the midnight sun," I thought to myself as the taxi wound its way along the  fir-lined road. It was 12:30 a.m. and twilight. 

The following day, I found myself on another hours-long layover in King Salmon. There were only four of us in the gate area waiting for the flight to Egegik, when a woman behind the counter called each of us individually to take our bags. She asked us our weight. With some trepidation, I eyed the other passengers, who were larger men. We were led to a small bush plane, and I was predictably relegated to the tail section, crammed amid luggage. The half-hour flight ended without incident, and the men piled out, all headed to the fishing docks, leaving me standing alone on the dirt runway. 

A white dilapidated truck soon approached, bumping its way up a small unpaved service road of sorts towards me. A scruffy man with a round, grubby face leaned out the window. 

"Woodbine?" he called.

I got in, and he turned to me with a toothless grin. "Welcome to Egegik."

I managed a fleeting smile, as we traversed more unpaved roads (which turned out to be the only kind in this little village) across a barren landscape. Once in awhile, we came close to the shore of Bristol Bay. The tundra close to the water was covered with short, spongy grass; the green contrasting sharply with the grayish water into which it jutted dramatically.

We arrived at the company's administration office. I checked in and was shown to my barracks. The room was about ten by twelve feet, with one window overlooking muddy trails, deeply grooved with ATV tracks. Bunk beds lined one side of the room; a single cot on the other. I sat on the edge of the cot awhile, trying to absorb my situation. I was in a place with no paved roads, where the only way in or out was by bush plane.

From the common area down the hall, I heard muffled voices. Maybe now would be an ideal time to try and meet some of my future co-workers. Taking a few tentative steps toward the little lounge, I could distinguish the giggly chatter of college-aged girls. Slightly relieved, I walked in and was greeted enthusiastically. Three of the young women appeared to be well-acquainted, and I discovered they had traveled from Connecticut to Seattle together via Greyhound Bus. And I thought my trip had been a killer. They had arrived only a few days ago.

We decided to walk around before heading to the dining hall for dinner. The others, Sandy, Suzanne, and Lori, showed me the path to the general store. I enjoyed looking at all the creature comforts imported from the Lower 48, but the prices were exorbitant:  six dollars for a pack of Oreos, five dollars for a small jar of peanut butter, and Tootsie Rolls were three for a dollar. I splurged on the Tootsie Rolls, and then we headed for some low cliffs above Bristol Bay. At the top of one of the cliffs, I made a morbid discovery, but one of which the others were already aware, and was apparently common knowledge throughout the village. 

The spring melt had caused mudslides, and the part of the cliff face that had fallen away left three very old graves partially unearthed. The coffins, if there had ever been any, had long since rotted away, exposing the skulls and some hair of the long-deceased people.

I quickly slid down the slope and beat the others in a race to the dining facility, where supper was being served. It was decent, including a buffet, ice cream machine, and fresh popcorn. There was also a nice selection of pastries. We had the chance to meet one of our supervisors, and learned that the salmon-laden ships would be arriving within a couple weeks.

"Enjoy this time while you can," one line leader warned, informing us that once the fish arrived for processing, and the season in full swing, we would be working sixteen-hour shifts, seven days a week, for the next month.