Editorial 3.6, June 2001, by Deirdre Helfferich Chicken I recently went to Ptarmigan for the weekend. Or would have, so the local mythos has it, if any of those miners and trappers could have spelled it correctly: they opted to call their camp Chicken, since it was easier to spell and was a synonym for ptarmigan back then. I was there with a group of painters to capture the scenic vistas of Chicken. Actually, I’m not sure if I really did see Chicken itself, or only the commercial trap for the unwary or undiscerning. I sure did see a lot of tourists. Not even Ester has the RV traffic that Chicken has. It was a beautiful, scorching hot, blue-sky weekend, and the dust never got a chance to settle on the Taylor Highway. The highway was in surprisingly good shape, even give the recent rains, which, I heard, quite frequently wash out the road. I’ve never seen so many campers and buses and mobile homes in one summer weekend in my life. Not even Alaskaland’s parking lot can hold a candle to the multitude of giant boxes on wheels that cruised through Beautiful Downtown Chicken. Some of them got stuck, and my companions and I kept marveling at the number of people from the Lower 48 who seemed to think that driving a dirt road for seventy miles or more to stop for a half hour or less in an old mining-camp-turned-money-making machine before traveling on to Eagle meant that they were Experiencing The Alaska Frontier. There were very few cars, but one couple in a red sports sedan asked me where they might find the nearest coffee shop. I didn’t bother to point out the obvious, but directed them to the nearest place that sold coffee. Maybe the only place that sold coffee. Maybe the only place. Chicken has a wintertime population of fifteen. In the summer, that population mushrooms to twenty-seven, plus 17 gazillion tourists. Most of the latter stay about 15 minutes, if they come off a tour bus, to about one hour, if they bring their own vehicular monster. It has a very nice little post office, which can maybe get four people in the miniature lobby (maybe more—even telephone booths can be surprisingly accomodating given a determined bunch of adolescents). I did see one of the two graveyards in Chicken, and the old dredge, and one of the two RV parks. My friends and I hung out at the only bar for eighty miles around, and I embarrassed myself twice by asking the bartender first for a shot of Bushmill’s (he guffawed) and then a gin and tonic with Tanqueray (he guffawed again, louder and longer). He took pity on me and offered me the last sip of Bombay gin (a special treat) and then the possiblity of a G&T with well gin. I declined. (What can I say? I’m a snob.) At least he had the grace to laugh when I asked my stupid questions. He’s probably had a thousand other tourists ask him something equally silly already this summer. The saloon’s ceiling was festooned with shredded underwear, which I didn’t notice at first because I was so delighted with the wallpaper: business cards from everywhere. It gave me a nostaligic twang, remembering the Blue Marlin’s walls and the oddments that were stuck on the walls and pinned to the ceiling (pig feet, matchbooks, business cards, etc.).* Then I looked up and saw the caps and undies hanging from the beams above. One of the entertainments in Chicken is to see if the tourists will subject their panties to ballistic experimentation. The bar has a small, short, squat cannon, from which the object of choice is propelled across the parking lot using black powder. The underwear gets pretty ragged in the process, although I noticed one pair (a child’s size small) that seemed to have survived almost intact. The shreds are then pinned to the ceiling and the participants, I presume, go back to drinking and telling lies. More fun than a potato gun. Chicken was wonderful for painting—except for the killer insects. The mosquitoes were expected, and during the day the breeze and the heat kept them away, so that’s when I got most of my painting done. But in the evening or morning, when the light is more interesting, I ran the considerable risk of mixing squashed mosquito parts into my paints—when I could stop swatting to get some on my brush. But mosquitoes are normal in Alaska, part of the ambiance, you might say. The bees were something else. Five minutes after we arrived, one of my compatriots was attacked by a large black wasp, stung on the thumb and the throat before you could say boo. We were standing in the middle of the driveway, admiring the scenery and looking at the geologists’ blue tents on the other side of the field, when bam! The wasp was evidently not looking where it was going, and got quite annoyed when it ran into an obstacle. Like many a human being I know, it took out its irritation on the obstacle. Then, while my friend was dancing about trying to get it away from her, it flew down her shirt, and proceeded to sting her twice more. She was yelping and leaping and flinging off clothing until finally the wasp zoomed off, but not before both jacket and shirt were on the ground. Despite the hooroar, the geologists, intent on their preparations for the next day, didn’t notice a thing. We got her dressed, doped her up with benadryl and anti-sting goop, and went to the saloon and got her a beer. She was pretty relaxed for the rest of the evening. The wasp did not return. However, just as I was settling down for some serious painting that evening, all arranged in front of our cabin, vista in front of me, paints and brushes and handy jars of water arrayed about, a bumblebee decided to investigate. Now, normally a bumblebee is going to come droning up, buzz lazily about for a moment, and then zoom loudly off. They are rather mellow as insects go, and while they certainly will sting if provoked, it takes a while to get them riled up—quite unlike your average hot-tempered hornet. But this bumblebee meant business. I brushed him away, he came back, and so I got up quickly and moved a couple of steps away—ordinarily enough to make your average bumblebee decide it isn’t worth the effort. Not this guy. He roared after me, blood in his compound eyes. I ran. Then Jean (the leader of our little expedition) came around the corner, oblivious to the insectile maniac I was fending off. I dodged him, shouted a warning, and Jean ran back into the cabin, but the bumblebee flew in after her, so she ran back out, then in, then out. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her exclamations and slaps and the slams of the screen door and the confused questions and surprised yelps that came from another one of our group who had been peaceably minding her own business inside the cabin when Jean pelted in with the bee in fierce pursuit. They finally got away, and all was quiet for a while. We decided to go get dinner and, for the time being anyway, abandon the cabin, which, we agreed nervously, was becoming a dangerous place to hang out, and never mind the view. Along the way, we encountered a horse. A small, pale, champagne-colored pony, whose deposits fertilized the lawn, berry bushes, and trees. There were kids and roosters (no hens) and swallows, and a three-legged dog named Tucker. The miners and other wildlife didn’t show up until later, but the geologists and a few locals and seasonal types were there, and a few tourists. We returned to the cabin after eating well and enjoying our selves yakking with the staff and each other. I decided to try to at least get one or two sketches in before turning in, so I sat down in my folding chair (after first checking about for territorial flying insects) and readied my canvas, when the damn bumblebee dove at me again. I lost him after about fifteen yards, waited a bit, and then returned to the cabin. No bee. I checked to see if there was evidence of a hive nearby (bumblebees like holes in the ground) but didn’t see anything, nor any other bees. The final members of our party pulled up about then, and so I went off to talk with them for a while, and after a bit came back to do some painting. I sat down, relaxing, and zzzzzmmmmmm! the bumblebee was back. I leaped up, yipping, and ran like hell to join the rest of our party. Safety in numbers, you know. Finally, matters were taken in hand by a more ruthless member of the party, who, when the bee chased the next person into the cabin, squashed him. No further bee problems occurred the rest of the weekend. We all came back with lots of sketches and anecdotes, and a goodly supply of the Mercantile Emporium’s Tacky Tourist Souvenirs (tee-shirts, a mug, postcards, etc.). We were well roasted by the sun, well fed by the cooks, awed by the beautiful hills, and pleased that our collective injuries while trekking about (stubbed toe, mosquito bites and wasp stings, a nail through the shoe) weren’t any worse. They’d warned us at the kitchen that bears came wandering through occasionally, but I think we could have done better with a warning about the bugs instead. * For those of you who may not be familiar with College history, the Blue Marlin was the finest pizza emporium that ever existed in Alaska—but not necessarily because of its pizza. Its progeny, the Marlin and the Blue Loon (formerly the Crazy Loon) have proved to be worthy of their quirky heritage, if a little straight and narrow in comparison. | ||
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