Alaska Dispatches
# 14  —  1 March 2001

Cutting Ice

	We got about 6 inches of snow this morning, and it looked like it was going to be coming down all day. But the sky cleared around noon and we were graced with a spectacular, sunny day. The temperature shot up to freezing. My neighbor asked if I wanted to head out to the tundra with him for some ice. Our water supply was running low, and I can’t tell good ice from bad, so I jumped at the opportunity to go with a guide. I decided to bring Jules along for the ride.
	While we use rainwater during spring, summer and fall, we have to collect ice from the frozen lakes out on the tundra for all of our water during the long winter months. This involves roping a freight sled onto the back of a snowmachine, tying a container onto the sled and heading out to look for good ice. Small frozen tundra lakes and rivers are prospected. Once a good spot is found, we shovel off the top layer of snow, and use an eight-foot, sharp and heavy metal ice pick to chop the ground ice into small pieces, which we then shovel into our containers. Once back to the village, we then have to transport the ice pieces by 5-gallon bucket load into the water containers in our homes. The ice melts after a few days indoors, providing us with water.
Collecting the ice is hard work. My neighbor’s son, the previous resident of our house, was back for a visit and stopped by to pick up some things. He said that he has gained 20 pounds living in Bethel, mostly from the lack of necessary physical work like collecting ice, dumping the honeybucket and dealing with stove oil.
	Before heading out this afternoon we bundled Jules for an arctic expedition. I plopped him in front of me on our snowmachine, and we took off out of town towards the southeast and the good ice. Leaving the village I gazed out on the blanketed white tundra, extending endlessly in every direction. Jules sat there gazing as well, taking it all in quietly through his little red goggles. I had a strangely convincing feeling that perhaps today would supply Jules’ first memory; it was so distinct and awesome.
	We traveled about a mile out of the village, and stopped at one of the countless lakes to get our ice.  My neighbor shoveled off some snow, chopped a small piece of ice and held it close to his face. He examined the piece for a minute or so and then declared “it’s good,” so we got to work.
It was so warm in the sunshine that shortly after we started shoveling and cutting I took off my coveralls. Jules was enthralled by our repetitive chopping, and kept wandering in towards where we were striking the ice. I told him to go climb a small hill that I spotted a couple of hundred yards away, explaining that he would be able to see Piniq from there. I expected him to wander off a ways and come back. One nice thing about the wide-open tundra is that there’s really nowhere for Jules to go, and no way for him to get into trouble.
I kept looking up in the breaks from my work to see Jules and his red down coat getting smaller and smaller against the infinite white background. He fell a couple of times, quickly getting back up, brushing off the snow and plowing ahead. He eventually made it all the way to the far-off hill, went around back and climbed to the top. Jules was so damn precious standing up there, especially when he gave me a big wave. He looked so small and so huge at the same time, shrinking into the distance, yet looming so large by taking off on his own and climbing that hill so far away. Cliché, yes, but my boy is growing up so fast.
We kept working as Jules wandered back. He played with a big snowball for a spell, and then stood off to the side stomping his feet and saying: “Chop! Chop! Chop!” in time to my work. Eventually he decided to wander off in the opposite direction, back towards the village.
Once finished, I called Jules and he moseyed back to our snowmachine. I helped him up onto the seat, put his goggles back on and started for home. Exhausted from our respective workouts, we sat quietly, watching the tundra whiz by and eventually seeing the village come into view ahead of us. There is nothing quite like the view of the village entering your focus upon coming home after being out on the tundra. Jules leaned back into me, the roar of the machine under us practically lulling him to sleep. We hit some bumps in the trail, and I squeezed my son close. I was so filled with joy, for bringing him along today, for coming to Alaska with him in the first place, for all the priceless moments this year affords me.

©2001, Michael Thornton Wyman