Communal Living Defined

29 01 2024

What does communal living mean to you?

Seems like a simple enough question. Everyone pitches in, does their part and gets a long. Right? Well, it doesn’t always work out like that. We are humans after all.

To be fair, it was an interview question during the hiring process: Have you lived and worked in a community environment before and are you comfortable with this lifestyle?

Of course, I had worked in these settings before in the national parks and understood very well that you would be seeing the same people every day for months. Best make friends real quick and learn to cooperate with those who may have a different world view.

But that was 10 years ago and a lot has changed in American society since then, thanks largely to the coronavirus pandemic. Here in Alaska, I was working for a very progressive company that promoted values of diversity, equity and inclusion. The company had also been in existence for many years, developing trust throughout the Anchorage area and establishing itself as a leading lodging and touring operator.

There were a lot of different personalities in our camp and I was one of the elders of the group. Looking back, this was an adjustment that I was not quite ready to handle. Seeing younger generations take charge and make decisions was a change and there were times where I felt ignored or invisible.

In previous gigs in Portland, I was able to neutralize the age gap with my work ethic. Out hustling the so-called smartest folks in the room. That wasn’t so much the case here. There were more people than opportunities, which created a competitive nature, particularly when it came to driving assignments.

The first few weeks we practiced backing up the rafting trailer with the van. It would be my job to drive the trailer to a pickup spot downstream, back the trailer into the river, hop out and pull a raft full of people to shore. When I was first informed of this duty, I thought they were kidding.

Wading In

“What size waders do you wear, John?” the base camp supervisor asked.

Nope, they weren’t kidding.

Thankfully, a nice young man from Arkansas rode along with me to make sure it all went off without a hitch. Patrick had a full head of long light brown hair that grew down well past his shoulders and a voice as deep as Johnny Cash. He was one of the caretakers of the lodge, staying up here year-round and braving the harsh winter conditions with his loyal husky Chaga.

“You got this, John,” he said as we meandered the gravel road to the boat launch site.

Sure enough, I backed up the trailer, pulled the raft to shore and drove a van full of tired tourists back to the lodge. Not something I ever envisioned myself to be doing at the age of 49, but here I was. I don’t think I could have done it without Patrick’s encouragement and confidence. He was definitely one of my favorites from the camp. A true Southern gentleman.

On my days off, I looked for hiking trails and nearby points of interest to explore. I closely studied the trees, plants, flowers and wildlife. Moose were plentiful here and unfortunately routine roadkill on the Sterling Hwy. On the ride back from picking up rafters we usually saw bears and I would slow the van to a crawl so the tourists could snap some pictures. Bald eagles were abundant, perched on tree branches overlooking the river.

In was late May and the salmon had yet to make their run upstream. They would be here soon and so would every high flying sports angler from near and far. Guests, especially those who came year-after-year, were a big part of this communal living. They paid big bucks to live amongst us. Our staff carried their luggage, cleaned their cabins and took them on guided excursions from Denail to Kenai.

The crew you worked closely with would become a big part of your experience and typically activitites were planned around your RDOs (regular days off) and whoever shared those days. Only two people in camp had Wednesdays and Thursdays as RDOs — me and DL, a young Black dude, fresh out of the Navy.

Neither of us had a car or very much money, but together, we would put this communal living to the test.


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Categories : Alaska, Work

Into The Alaskan Wild

26 12 2023

“Cool story buddy, but I think you got it backwards.”

Zac had made the trek across the border too — the other way.

“Plenty of older Americans do too…my folks included,” he told me. “Prices for medications in the States is ridiculous.”

The scene had shifted north to Alaska as Zac and I shared stories of our adventures prior to arriving in the land of the midnight sun. We were bunkmates inside a canvas-walled cabin nestled along the banks of the Kenai River. It was early May and there was still patches of snow clumped along the roadside and atop the mountains.

We were there to help open a fishing lodge, both serving as base camp drivers. With David’s blessing, I signed a four-month contract to work the summer season in the tiny town of Cooper Landing on the Kenai Peninsula, about a two hour drive south of Anchorage.

I was excited about the gig, recalling how much fun the summers in the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone had been. Previously, Zac and I worked together in Glacier National Park and he recently spent some time driving big tanker trucks around Oregon and northern California, while I toiled away in the warehouse of smiles.

Zac prepared me for Alaska’s cold conditions, advising I invest in a good insulated sleeping bag. That recommendation turned into a life saver as the temperature dropped to 33 degrees on our first night in the cabin.

“How’d you sleep, John?” one of the guys asked the next morning at the employee mess hall. “Nice and toasty,” I replied. Yes, I was pretty much the meat of a sleeping bag sandwich. Sort of like a nice toasty BLT…or was it LGBT? Heh. All jokes aside, I’m not quite sure I understood the living arrangements when signing up for this gig. Housing was indeed free — but it was outside.

Most of the workers were college aged or recent graduates. Some came here to study the environment, others to celebrate their freedom far away from home. The story of Christopher McCandless — from the nonfiction book and film, Into the Wild, was bandied about from time to time. Ironically, my resemblence to McCandless was one of the last messages I got from Will, a former editor and loyal friend from my days at the Panama City newspaper.

“It’s remarkable how much you look like that guy,” he wrote in one of his last Facebook messages to me. Will died a few years ago from brain cancer. Taken way too early. His death shook me and I miss him a lot.

In some ways, my story was similar to McCandless in that I did not have a clear exit strategy. There were a lot of “returnees” at the lodge. Alaska needs workers for its busy summer season when tourists arrive en mass to gasp at the glaciers, hook a salmon and bask in the long daylight hours of this beautiful state.

Zac had been up here before, working out of Denali. While he didn’t let on, I’m pretty sure he was amused at my naivete of the Alaskan experience.

“Let’s go see Nome,” I gleefully proposed.

“That’ll be a long drive,” he said.

Little did I know, Nome was not accessible by car — only by air, sea or dogsled.

That’s the great thing about traveling and learning new customs, cultures and ways of living. In Alaska, I would come to find out, in order to survive year-round here, one must adapt to communal — dare I say, tribal — living. That lifestyle, not the cold, would be my biggest challenge.

Kenai Lake


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Categories : Alaska

Back At It

11 06 2023

Maybe it was the cold that brought me in. Could it be that sleeping outside in 34 degree weather actually awakened my senses. What was I doing in this cabin — deep in the Alaskan wilderness — with no car, barely making above minimum wage and surrounded by Gen Zers who just wanted to party all the time.

Well, to answer that question we need to rewind to where we last left off…the warehouse.

Life in the tote trenches was exhausting and I had lost my will to keep up the daily drudgery of fighting the system. Don’t get me wrong, my skirmishes with management were enjoyable as I used every last COVID-19 rule and mechianical irregularity to my advantage. Still, you can only slow walk to the bathroom so many times during an 11-hour shift before you realize they just don’t give a damn anymore.

I’d won, but was still in need of an exit strategy and if the smile center had taught me anything, it was how to measure time and savor every second. The off ramp would come from an unlikely source — the TSA. Yep, the Transportation Security Administration was hiring and like most places mired in the pandemic, desperate for able-bodied Americans willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the love of their country.

So I embarked on a new journey of going through the rigorous process of applying for employment with the federal government. Tests, physicals, drug screenings, background checks and interviews. It gave me a goal that the warehouse didn’t. A purpose to pursue, if you will.

Come fly with me.


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Categories : Alaska, Security, Work