Is subsistence hunting and drinking dangerous? My lips are sealed.

Top of the morning gents,

Have you been so scared, you truly worried you weren't gonna make it home? Yup, me too.

Years ago I was invited to go seal hunting with David Melton, David and Danny Burnor and Nils Gregg. I'm always enthusiastic, almost to a fault, besides it sounded cool, so I said, "Sure, you bet." It looked easy enough. Me and Sara sat on the Little Kivilina beach and watched Eskimo dudes dressed in white camos, stalk seals resting on the ice, level their rifles and blammo! Put a bullet under the cute sea mammal's chin, mouth or nose.

My favorite pair of hunters to watch was Octuck and Murphy. They'd do the Inupiaq commando crawl, moving within range of a collection of adult seals that looked about 100 pounds each, take aim and simultaneously fire, splitting the seal's snot lockers with smaller, super-sonic, ultra-high velocity, semi-jacketed hollow point rifle rounds and amidst a cloud of red mist, their prey would flip over dead. Once in a while I seen a gravely injured seal gimp into the open water, but only float there until Patrick or Joe snagged the little fucker with a gaffing hook and pull the red bubbling snack ashore.

After hunting and dragging his kill to shore, Octuck lectured and showed Sara and I that shooting seals through the snout, mouth and face prevented the animal from exhaling, descending below the surface and sinking out of reach. Cool huh? With Joe Murphy and Patrick Octuck's lessons in mind, I fancied myself qualified enough to at least watch seal hunting up close. So I took this opportunity to join Nils, Melton, and the Burnors on their ill-fated hunt.

From the Hanson's fuel pump on the beach, we loaded up David Burnor's boat with almost a million fucking bucks worth of gasoline. We also loaded up a bunch of booze, some bags of weed and also stowed a number of rifles and ammo. Myself, I holstered a couple revolvers, a DA snubby and a Taurus long barrel, both 357 magnums, I also pocketed a couple boxes of bullets too. There ain't honor amongst thieves, nor murderers, and coming from a extraordinarily violent farming community and alcoholic family, I didn't want to go out hunting, get shot and sunk to the bottom of Kotzebue Sound next to centuries of honey buckets. Besides, adding my weight to the food and supplies, I balanced the boat and also brought a degree of safety to the mish. What the fuck, look at my company. None of you niggers'd go hunting alone with these lethal drunken retarded motherfuckers. Someone had to be the responsible person. That's me. And 2 magnums.

Nils and Melton were interested in heading out to the left, south of Kotzebue and approach the ice pack, scoping with binoculars looking for adult and pup seals to shoot. So under a good measure of throttle, we boogied full tilt towards the ice pack while the two seasoned hunters were scanning for game to shoot. David and Danny Burnor could repair any part of that boat with all the tools and parts, whereas I was only along for the ride cuz I'd never hunted seals and considered my contribution was merely as observer and lookout. I liked the ride and the weather was clear with bright sun and not a cloud in the sky. You all know spring weather in Kotzebue Sound, not a breeze to blow out our lighters as we toked, chiefed and choked monster plumes of green bud along the way, leaving a carbon footprint that'd make Dan Yenni smile.

As we approached the ice, it was obvious we weren't gonna just step off the boat, stroll onto the ice sheet and blast munchies. The ice was likely more than 20 feet thick and any seals were gonna be way above our heads. We eased the throttle and slowed our approach looking for a sloping wedge to climb or even sea level ice we could tie to and go hunting.

The ice pack was fucking huge and pretty much a vertical white and blue wall we'd never be able to climb. We motored carefully both left and right looking for an easy approach. We made note of two canals of open water that headed into the 50 mile wide (and hundreds of miles deep) ice pack, but we wanted to hike and hunt on top of this huge white wall, not motor down a blue walled open roofed tunnel that breathed a freezing wind straight out and into our faces.

After craning our necks looking up at this vertical ice cliff, Nils and Melton suggested we drive down one of the narrow channels and see if any sea mammals were swimming about looking to suck a bullet. We'd heard some splashes that echoed out of these refrigerated leads, so we proceeded inside the ice pack. Within a few minutes, we were colder'n shit and the splashes were coming from ice calving down the sides of our open topped tunnel. We didn't see any seals and we were dreaming out our asses if we were gonna see any walrus.

Another claustrophobic aspect of our narrow channel cruise was the only illumination came from overhead. Sunlight and blue sky were our lighting and we just motored along looking for shit to shoot. We'd tired of boating inside a giant ice pack and agreed it best we turned around and headed back out to explore the other open water lead.

We reversed our course and chuckled at how our voices echoed and air was super dense, cold and sweet. As we approached the area we assumed was the exit back out to open water, we noticed a fork in the channel that wasn't there on our initial foray. This was troubling, we didn't know which channel led back out. On our way in, we drove down a single lane of open water and there weren't any forks in the road posing any decision whether right or left. It all looked the same and all we had was blue sky above, about 20 feet or more over our heads.

We agreed to inspect the right turn first, then back up and take a look down the left channel. The right turn was identical and we couldn't tell if this was our original route into the ice pack. We turned around and headed back to take a look down the other choice, the left turn we found. As we came to the junction, I saw a line of crushed ice from below water level vertically up to the blue sky overhead. It was two walls of ice that had been crushed shut and was our original entry route. Now closed off.

This isn't an isolated event, I been trading merch for seals and shipping them upriver to grandma Magdelen (bun's mom) for years. I traded bottles with Kenny (bun's brother) for seals or purchased them outright from old lady Mary Ann Mendenhall, wrapped them in rolls of clear heavy gauge plastic I use for masking off my paint and mud work on 711 and 676. With miles of clear strapping tape, I put big labels on them, tightly wrap the entire plastic cocoon, then put them back outside in -30 below temps and froze those heavy fuckers solid as a rock. For your information, yes, I did think of shoving bottles of booze or sheets of acid up the asses of my frozen seals, but since bun was directing my philanthropy, I put the kibosh on that scheme. Besides, putting liquor or LSD in the hands of my retarded in-laws will invariably prove stupid.

My go-to guys for transport were old friends of mine. Calvin Monroe (Albert Monroe's nephew) drove for Arctic Cab (owned by Mungnuk), old man Alvin Ivanoff drove for his own cab company and Wade Laws drove for Midnight Sun Cab. I checked my 2 plastic wrapped seals to make sure they were rock-hard then phoned Wade. After clearing his passengers and the lunch rush slowed down, he drove his cab to my house, helped me pick up and heft the 2 wrapped and frozen seals into his cab, then we booked down to the airport. He also helped me carry them two heavy frosty seals inside Baker Aviation.

Seeing the Selawik addresses I taped on my frozen seals, old lady Margie Baker wouldn't take a dime for our freight. She gave me and Wade a big smile, insisting the 2 wrapped seals were shipped for free, that very day. She even directed us out onto the tarmac and loaded the hermetically wrapped seals on the planes ourselves. Marge Baker went so far as to instruct the pilot that she's paying the freight on these frozen seals and could they get delivered first on his down-river triangle (Noorvik, Kiana, Selawik). Mrs. Baker glowingly praised our 100+ pound frosty food units we were shipping to Selawik. She further poured compliments upon us for sending rock-hard frozen seals to the funerals in Selawik and this was really a wonderful gesture and everybody will enjoy them at the feast. Wade and I were gobsmacked and dumbfounded, we weren't aware of any funerals in Selawik, but graciously accepted her generosity and thanks. And our faces got hot. Sometimes, in life, when old ladies owning airlines gush praise and affection and extend such glowing approval upon you, it's best to keep yer mouth shut, smile and nod.

After broadcasting to Charlie Reich Sr. back at home-base for Midnight Sun Cab 'bout our Inupiaq Nikipaq mission of mercy for the funerals in Selawik, Charlie yelled a couple atta boys to both of us, "You boys did real good there." "Thanks Karl. Tell bun thanks too." Did you see that? Wade and I just hijacked a wave of community kindness, generosity and well-being, all by accident. Over the air Charlie doubled up his praise and declared there was no charge for the cab fare.

On the way home, Wade lit up a monster bomber joint and said, "Fuck Karl, I think we just earned our angel's wings, so we better smoke this." Of course, I handed Wade a packet of LSD soaked paper doses for his efforts. Wade and I are such dumb asses. God spread his grace upon us from so many directions, and we never expected it. That day provided dozens, possibly hundreds of smiles and warm hearts all around us. It also reinforced my future efforts undertaking what I fondly call: Operation Muktuk. My eyes well up just writing about that day.

Instead of dropping me off back at home, I asked if I could ride around while Wade picked up more passengers. That was when he told me his story that lots of seal hunters have disappeared inside the ice pack of Kotzebue Sound as it merges with the much larger ocean going ice pack that stretches all the way to Russia. Doug Sheldon was Solveig Naylor's dad, and Raymond Brown was Martha Brown (Glenn Lodge's wife) and Amelia Brown's poppa (Billy Byrd's wife). Sheldon and Brown had disappeared and presumed dead after getting locked and crushed behind the closing doors of ice leads as gentle winds blew the ice pack channels shut.

In roughly the year 1988, Doug Sheldon and Raymond Brown loaded up their boat with gas, gear and guns and headed South to go seal hunting on the receding ice pack the same direction and same distance as my plow-headed crew mates. After gassing up at Hanson's, if you look way to the left you can see the white margin above the water and just below the sky's horizon. The reason I use those directional illustrations is this is how Wade Laws told me this tale.

Mr. Laws frequented that same route and went bone and fossilized ivory hunting near Elephant Point, adjacent to the community of Deering and the formerly inhabited gold mining ghost town of Candle. Wade expressed great fear of entering the spring ice pack and motoring in and around the maze of channels hunting for seals. "No fucking way." "The bravest subsistence I'm gonna do is dig for mastodon around Elephant Point." That's where all mastodons go to die.

He further explained that like modern day elephants and ancient mastodon (woolly mammoths) from prior ice ages escorted their dying family members to their burial grounds. Smaller mammoths that died in transit to Boot Hill were carried in the massive tusks of the males. Modern elephants will tag team and coordinate their efforts in transporting their dead or dying parents, siblings and offspring to the soft earth of their family plots. The whole herd takes turns dragging or carrying loved ones for shallow burial as a protective measure against predation.

Wade explained he'd seen photos of larger male and female elephants carrying dead family members with their bodies laying across pairs (and trios) of marching pachyderms like lounging across 4-6 tusks. I added that I'd seen a row of three pallet-forklift equipped bucket loaders carrying whales up the shore for butcher in Barrow. "Fuck Karl, I forgot you and bun lived up there." I corrected him and stated that we have to return when our tenants move out of our duplex on Northstar street in Browerville.

I insisted he continue his story, I wanted more information about Doug Sheldon and Raymond Brown, so Wade Law continued, but his eyes welled up retelling me the unspeakable. He and his mates were near their boat loading fossilized bone and tusks when they heard faint VHF radio chatter requesting assistance from Sheldon and Brown. Wade grabbed the microphone and asked where they were and they explained they were 20 minutes down a water channel, inside the ice pack, disoriented and lost, and couldn't retrace their way back out.

Wade and his buddies repeated their radio request back to Kotzebue Police Dispatch and Search and Rescue for emergency assistance. The VPSO's in Deering (Dickie Moto) and Buckland (either Geary or Hadley) could hear the radio chatter and phoned KPD 911 emergency services and advised the boys inside the radio shack (Central Dispatch) in the old KPD jail of the troubled boaters. A Service Request (SR) was initiated with names, dates, times, agencies contacted, agencies responding, estimated location of distressed parties entered and AST was notified. The dispatcher at KPD simultaneously notified the Fire Hall and Search and Rescue. S&R scrambled 2 boats with Trox, Munson and Danny Thomas coordinating the search. Only you coppers know how many parties get activated and mobilized on these kinds of calls.

The troopers followed the VHF boat radio chatter from Jackie (Joule) and Joe Hill, who were South of Sadie Creek, acting as directional spotters who'd seen Sheldon and Brown motoring by earlier in the day. Ross Schaeffer also radioed in from his cabin on the Kenworthy native land allotment and added a closer time and distance he'd observed the two troubled boaters had motored by. His estimate was that they'd driven by at roughly noon, a couple hundred yards offshore, just past all the buoy markers and subsistence nets. Ross Schaeffer further added Sheldon and Brown both waved, yelled hello and looked in good condition and good spirits, heading to the ice pack just offshore.

On emergency call-outs, the best and only radio relays are the campers and fishermen at camp, in boats or in cabins, all the way down the coast. As the radio chatter and information requests increased, Dispatch, Search and Rescue and the Troopers were able to better zero in on a tighter location of the lost or stranded Sheldon and Brown sealing crew.

The Kotzebue Detachment Troopers scrambled an airplane and a teacher from Deering went wheels up and both zoomed the beaches, streams and shoreline signaling the adhoc communications network up and down the coast with wings tipping and hails from both CB and VHF. The teacher from Deering was quickest to first barnstorm the beaches, then went over water towards the ice pack. The troopers were directly behind him by a short time and monitoring both CB and VHF and also FAA radio frequencies and started a rough grid search of the ice pack. An ice pack that was dozens of miles wide at the Northern face and went hundreds of miles out to sea.

When a channel was spotted, the planes would divert from their grid work and trace the blue water leads from beginning to end. If no boat or hunters were spotted, then they'd resume their north-south, east-west flyovers, looking for more open water cracks in the ice pack.

The teacher from Deering ran low on fuel and headed back to the village air strip to gas up on more 100 octane low-lead, then flew back out over open water and continued searching the blue open water leads amidst that giant ice pack. The Troopers then departed to Deering and fueled up too.

With both planes flying, the radio hails from Sheldon and Brown stated they'd seen and heard a plane fly over, but their communications grew garbled and disintegrated into static with none of our Eskimo relays down the entire coast from Kotzebue, Sadie Creek and Elephant Point able to make out the distress calls from our ice locked seal hunters. In moments like these, radio silence can break yer heart.

Wade told me that as they finished loading up their gear and were going to head out towards the ice pack and join the two Search and Rescue boats, the regularly scheduled late afternoon breezes started to blow. Then the really sad news started to repeat up and down the coast line. The Search and Rescue boats watched as the remaining few open leads in the ice pack closed like giant white and blue doors. The search planes also got quiet as they reported that all the blue water channels directly below them were closing up. Any camper, fisherman and seal hunter knows that floating ice packs answer to the prevailing winds and open and close the large cracks in the pack. This time of day, the ice pack closed up all the big cracks with our two seal hunting boaters within them.

The troopers and the civilian plane from Deering discussed the dilemma and the S&R boaters awaited a decision to halt their search and head back to rescue base. Robert Thompson (Warren and May's son) manning the FAA station in Kotzebue radioed with information from Kodiak Coast Guard that it'd be many hours for helicopters to join in the search and the ice pack prevents any ocean-going vessels from coming close.

At this time other Civil Aviation volunteer planes including Dale Walters (Nush and my boss at Ryan Air), Bob Douglas and Carl Weisner (Brian Higman's boss at NW Arctic School District) were performing flyovers and verified that ALL the open leads in the ice pack were shut tight and there was zero chance of survival. The only visible leads were those that were located more than 100 miles west, and part of the larger ocean ice pack. For miles and miles, the pilots and boaters could only see solid white and not a single vein of blue.

That's when prayers were heard on all the CB and VHF radio channels. Wade Laws got pretty torn up concluding his story. He'd gotten a boat full of fossilized ivory and bones, but the ride home was real fucking depressing. As they headed back up the coast towards Kotzebue, all the campers and fishermen were out on the beach crying and waving as all the planes flew over and boats passed by. The teacher from Deering radioed thanks to the adhoc relay communications stations along the coast and departed back home. The S&R boats and volunteer planes, along with the troopers advised they'd do follow up searches the following day.

I asked Wade what likely happened and he explained that the walls along the sides of the leads Sheldon and Brown were boating in, closed tight like bulldozers from two sides, crushing everything inside. The debris from their boat and gear would likely never be found because as an ice pack ebbs and flows on it's migration out to sea, the old cracks stay sealed tight with new leads opening with the wind and tide water currents.

I complimented Wade Laws on his detailed recollections of that day, then asked how he knew so much about these missing hunters. His reply was, "Doug Sheldon was my uncle, my mom's brother." Ouch. That was the moment I told Mr. Laws about my trip into the ice pack with David Melton, two Burnors and Nils Gregg. He looked at me in awe. I told him that our entrance had shut tight and closed off our initial water channel.

We couldn't radio for help, we had zero signal and not a scrap of static down below 20 foot tall cliffs above our heads, so we had to simply hunt and pray. I concluded that had we not found an exit an hour later, ice climbing gear would've been the only solution to our dilemma. All we had was booze, weed and firepower. We would've been classified as another tragic case of "Gone Missing."

We motored up and down a maze of leads looking for an exit and finally found a brightly lit blue walled water channel. That brightly lit channel in the ice pack seemed to me to be a sign, so I suggested to the Burnors that our exit just showed itself. Melton and Nils nodded in agreement and I believe, secretly prayed I was right. This channel offered our escape from a real fucking nightmare of white and freezing cold breezes.

I still have nightmares about that mission. Since I'm the last of a very few living members of that ill-fated seal hunting mission, and you coppers are the last living team members of that era of Kotzebue's emergency responders, it's fitting I tell you about the parallel disappearances of Doug Sheldon and Raymond Brown alongside this tale. Nils Gregg and David Burnor passed away years ago, and so have Jackie and Joe HIll. I'm not sure about Danny nor David Melton. What the fuck, look back at the names of the folks I've listed and do the subtraction, most of them are long dead. I'm grateful you're still here.

Now I'm going to tell you the other part of the story. As me and my crew of seal hunters, poachers and alcoholics motored up and down dead-end channels looking for our exit, we were drinking and smoking. A lot. All you coppers know how boating and flying tends to drive alcohol into yer bloodstream much faster, and well, add bleeding ulcers and booze inflamed intestines and fried colorectal tissue, and you got Nils, David, Danny and Melton, all liquored, soaked well into their cups and fuckered up. Not a pretty site.

After our escape from the ice cap and heading back to town, there were a lot of smaller icebergs in our path, across the middle of Kotzebue Sound, so we booked closer to shore. This maneuver made sense to me, but not the consequences. We veered in along the shoreline and then opened up the throttles, roaring back towards home, in front of Ross Schaeffer's cabin on the Kenworthy native land allotment, Sadie Creek and the Kotzebue Air Force Base. David Burnor was driving, Danny was co-pilot and Nils Gregg was in back with David Melton and myself, passing bottles of 151 rot-gut shitty liquor and smoking bowls of Ken Hall's green bud that was fronted to my crew mates, and likely never paid for. Do you see a cookbook with a recipe for disaster in the making? Hold yer dicks and listen up.

We were really moving along, close to the shoreline, at top speed, up on plane and zooming over a million fucking fish nets spanning perpendicular to our flight path home. We were churning up a rooster tail, breathing flames and green toke plumes in our wake, shredding nets, buoys and even overturned net-check rafts, skiffs and canoes. Sounds fun huh? Not to the subsistence salmon crunchers up and down the beach all the way home. We heard shotguns and rifle cracks and heard bullets scream by and whistle over our heads and on both sides of the boat. Just imagine a redneck action movie, starring drunks, half-niffs and morons. I played the role of the moron.

David and Danny kept the pedal to the metal, wide open and we flew close to the beach like speeding motherfuckers, putting distance between us and all the campers on the beach firing rounds at our drunk asses. I was amazed that not one single pellet or bullet didn't score a hit and puncture our hides or even hit the boat hull, cabin or windshield. Fuck we were moving at light speed, leaving a killer wake with floating fish and chum steaks cut up from our propeller, sending waves of chopped up subsistence food ashore. I chuckle at my retelling this tale. That is, until we arrived in front of the Post Office where we parked our vehicles and boat trailer.

As we cleared the Air Force Base, zoomed past the shit lagoons and rounded the ass end of the airport, I saw trooper and city police cars matching our speed, following our vector and trajectory, from the south end of town like a motorcade racing to meet us for our VIP arrival and docking. Don't think for a second all these police units were speeding along Front Street to shake our hands and high-five for our escape from the ice pack. How about cuffs and shackles, book-ins, bail hearings and legal messes that were soon gonna fuck up our lives. At least the lives of my crew mates, seal hunters and poachers.

As we slowed and eased our way towards shore, Troopers Nay and Kozloff, Officers Wallace, Salazar, Erlich and Blanchard were all converging on our stupid asses. I knew this wasn't a party, this was a fuck-fest. The coppers assisted us in pulling ashore, then requested we step out of the boat, one at a time. David and Danny Burnor were obviously in control of the boat, being the only chumps in the cabin and Nils, Melton and myself were standing in the back. That was when David Burnor, Danny, Nils and Melton yelled at the cops to fuck off, started pushing the cops away, raising fists and preparing for a brawl. I stepped out of the boat, walked up to Front Street and stood far from the fray as my crew mates started swinging and kicking at the cops, yelling loud and super fucked up. I was amazed: green bud and alcohol makes men stronger and smarter. Not.

The cops and troopers responded with batons and put down this shoreline battle, beach brawl and drunken fisticuffs in about 4 minutes. I stayed with the assembled crowds and watched KPD and AST beat the shit outa the fighting drunk belligerent four. I just stood aside, kept mum and didn't say a word. This battle seemed to have been brewing long before I hopped aboard that boat and I'm thinking it was related to Trooper Carl Schramm's bootleg bust and the long history between the cops and my crew mates. It also looked to me like the cops were gonna settle their hash, once and for all. Nils, David, Danny and Melton took blows on their heads, necks, elbows and knees, but kept on fighting like mad dogs, yelling, cursing and doing a lot of damage to the peace and dignity of the great state of Alaska. Kotzebue too.

Even Paula Burnor (Hensley), Roberta Brower (Numnik), Karen Hensley, Clifford Melton, Renee Lane (Gonion), Kenny Ipalook and a couple others awaiting our arrival volunteered as combatants and joined in the melee. It looked to me almost as messy and complicated as the brawl in front of the Lyon's Club when half the town and KPD (Nush, Roger Dubie and John Mack) beat the shit of the nigger Thomas clan o' monkeys, chimps and gorillas after the dance. Fuck, this woulda been worth money on pay-per-view. I simply stood with the growing crowd of post office employees, patrons, Manilaq workers and watched the slug-fest and beat down.

After my drunken crew mates and their volunteer brawlers were all subdued, restrained and the cops caught their breaths, Wallace signaled to me to approach. He drew me away by the arm and asked politely to tell him what the fuck just happened. I told Wallace and Nay the simple, unvarnished truth. We were seal hunting, got trapped in the ice pack, found a way out, headed back home, close to shore and then the Burnors floored it. Albeit, super drunk, shredding sub-nets and flipping little boats and rafts all the way home. I even included taking rounds from rifles and shotguns as we sped by the beach. I was asked if I was intoxicated and I truthfully stated that no, I wasn't drunk. The weed I smoked was long gone, due to the sheer terror and stress from the trip home shredding nets, fish and tossing smaller craft. And dodging bullets. I'd popped some Altoids, had no booze nor drugs on me and kept my hands at my sides, still and answered the questions honestly and directly with zero hedging and coloration.

After the patrol cars and ambulances departed the scene, I was still standing on Front Street, next to Mumpsy, Ron and Peggy Brown from Arctic Sun Video. I was book-ended by lunatics Harold Wells and Dave Summerfelt, so I felt comfortable. They all asked me what the fuck just happened, so I told them a brief synopsis. Ron and Peggy shook their heads and stated that they've had their nets cut up by boats, and it was fucked up. Then Wells and Summerfelt looked up and down Front Street, laughed out loud and asked why I wasn't arrested and being driven away with all my compatriots. I shrugged and told them the troopers and cops had all the information they needed.

My testimony combined with the CB and VHF radio reports, and the arriving pissed off sub-net fishermen and angry cabin psychos pretty much sealed their fate. When my crew mates started swinging, punching, kicking and yelling at the cops, well, that was simply a garnishment to their shit pile they'd just created. I wasn't driving the boat, I wasn't drunk (visibly) and I stepped a mere dozen feet away and simply stood still during the fuck-fest and ass-stomping. In my younger years operating Lem's Mortuary and Crack house, I learned to take police beatings from Officer Beuler and his Defective Detectives. Don't raise a finger, even if yer face down, out cold, in yer own front lawn.

I refrained from revealing my assignments working for Nay/Nolton on a special Capone project that years later, yielded numerous accolades and commendations statewide. Both Summerfelt and Wells are long deceased, and so is Ron Brown, but they're all gossip chatterboxes and weren't classified as "Need to Know." Remember, I'm just a dummy and that's my story, and I've stuck to it for decades. K160, N606: paid professional moron, unpaid bullet dump, non-profit punching bag, half-wit wholesale drug consumer and walking half-watt transmitter.

In scribbling this week's composition, I referred to bun's encyclopedic memory of events of citizens that've "Gone Missing." I was astonished of the number ice mishaps and vanishings that's occurred in her community and her family. She told me what happened to the original Charlie Tikik of the Point Hope village and clan: her grandfather and father's and brother's namesake. The name Tikik is an Eskimo family derivation of the village title: Tikigaq, the family and clan name bestowed, from the native village name, later called in English, Point Hope. Captain Cook pasted this new English name on this ancient community and upon his newly drawn maps during his pursuit of the Northwest Passage. Cook named both Cape of Good Hope and Point Hope on his voyages discovering continents that've been inhabited for thousands of centuries. English, Portuguese and Italian (including Christopher Columbus) explorers searched for a rapid sea route, a route through the Arctic Ocean that they discovered was closed off with the polar ice pack, yet open for sailors in earlier millennia, before global whining. In maritime museums in Finland, Norway and Sweden, you'll see ancient maps drawn by Vikings and Norsemen that illustrates an Arctic Ocean completely free of ice. Us sea-faring Europeans are such shits.

Bun's grandfather, Charlie Tikik of the Tikigaq Village, now called Point Hope was a seal and whale hunter of local repute. By genius standards of his peers, he was above average as an artist, singer and dancer, but did a bang up job of notoriety and uniquely excelled feeding the community with his bounty. On the 1900 census, the dude's occupation is listed as sealer and whaler. That fucking rocks.

Out hunting on a day almost a century ago, he didn't return home and a search party was sent out to retrieve him. There were seals way out on the ice, in the direction his neighbors seen him hike, but the breezes had picked up. Following his boot tracks in the ice and snow, it appears the chunk of ice pack he was hunting on, fractured and separated into many different windblown pieces.

Bun's grandfather, Charlie Tikik, sealer and whaler extraordinaire likely floated away, on his own island, blown out to sea, surviving on raw seal meat, ice melt water, eventually drowning when his solitary piece of ice melted and submersed him. This narrative scares hell out of me. I've no desire of dying alone, eating my own catch and waiting for my flotation device to finally sink. I'd likely go under with wonderful memories and prayers of my coworkers, friends and adopted Arctic family on my mind. Ironic, but that includes all you coppers. Fuck me.

As far as more moments of pure terror, we've likely had a few million since the 80's, living and working all over the 907 negro. Shit, I traveled around the world to experience chattering teeth and soggy shit-soaked diapers. The way I see it, lives and careers are long stretches of regular day-to-day existence, blended with thousands of wonderful romances, punctuated by moments of unexplainable anger, mysterious rage and those times that scared the shit out of us. Only a fool thinks his nightmares are unique. If you think of your worst fears as commonplace amongst us, yer peers, you won't die alone.

I know every one of you has a slightly different memory of these events. That's to be expected. We all possess a fraction of these composite events and truth as a whole is relative, complimentary and overlapping. Retelling this tale and all the parties involved wasn't an effort to bring back shitty memories and piss you off. Nup, I hoped to help you refresh our fading case histories and possibly retrace the NANA Region's community and lineage of half a century ago, long gone citizens, dead cops, drunks and bootleggers. By adding the married names I can illustrate their relationships to cherished friends, neighbors and coworkers.

This'll surprise y'all. I'm not related to anyone in all of Alaska, except by marriage, employment and odd ball friendships. With consults from the Chief and verification of kinship from bun, my narrow perspective, impaired writing skills, drug altered peephole and brief period watching you, I think I got this article of historical seal harvests portrayed accurately, fairly and with the correct sensitivity.

Remember, there's two kinds of Alaskans. Those that were born here: First Alaskans. And then there's those that arrived here, running from something: Worst Alaskans. You can guess where my membership lies.

Regardless of your origins, there's considerable philosophical and religious thinking and text, that if you die surrounded by coworkers, neighbors or family, you can be reasonably confident, that you can rest in peace. Fatal on the job injuries, violent trauma bagging fish and game or succumbing to chronic illnesses with your kids and grandkids surrounding you, yer going out in style.

Your dying bed may not be within 1000's of miles from yer birthplace. We also may pass away on the far side of the Rivers Noatak, Jordan or Styx, but God willing, you shouldn't be frightened.

Smile yer biggest shit eating grin. You made it home.

Karl.