North Dakota? A huge, undulating golf course and clumps of trees. Flat Montana rose up into the Rockies. The road was a precipitous rock wall on one side and a guard rail—dizzying nothingness beyond it—on the other. I could only smell the evergreens of Idaho as we roared through it in the night. Southern Washington seemed desolate with sage and rock. It felt like we were in the southwest. Then enchantment came outside of Ellensburg—the snowy Cascades jutting their proud peaks above the dark foothills. Black-striped, orange-barked pines towered amid the firs, and I felt I was moving through a canyon bordered with great living columns. Fog patches curled and ascended the slopes. The clear waters of the Yakima River raced along beside me.
Finally, upswooping, cloud-crowned Mount Rainier … and Seattle.
I shaved in the large restroom of the terminal. Soldiers were stripped down, dipping into suitcases, sprucing up and appraising their reflections. A thick-armed giant shaved next to me and splashed water like a grizzly emerging from a creek. I felt dwarfed beside him and wondered where he came from and what he did. I decided he had to be related to a Douglas fir.
Five days on the bus had exacted a toll. I didn’t realize how tired I was until I broke out on the streets of Seattle. I’d claim my seabag as soon as I got settled somewhere. Which way to go? I flipped a coin. Heads one way; tails, the other. Tails directed me to the Georgian Hotel. Not fancy, but in my price range, and it was clean. I soaked luxuriously in a hot bath, crawled between fresh sheets, and drifted into a deep sleep. When I woke, I couldn’t believe it! I had slept almost twelve hours.
I lay there staring at the ceiling. Thoughts bombarded me. Was I running away from life, or running toward it? Wouldn’t problems from back East follow me like birds in the wake of a ship? When was I going to realize I couldn’t be a boy forever? Well, I’d come this far. I’d play the hand out. With a frowning concentration, I dressed and went out to see the town.
Signs were all over the place:
ALASKA, LAND OF OPPORTUNITY.
FLY TO ALASKA! $79 TO ANCHORAGE WITH 55 POUNDS OF LUGGAGE, 30¢ FOR EXTRA WEIGHT.
STEAMSHIP CRUISE TO ANCHORAGE, $115 WITHOUT TAX.
SEE THE LAST FRONTIER!
The promoters were going on all cylinders. Such a lavish display made the whole business feel like a sucker’s game to me. Round-trip tickets weren’t mentioned at all. I wasn’t going off half-cocked. It was now Monday, July 14. I’d look around. If I didn’t line up an Alaska job here by Friday, I’d light out for Anchorage or Fairbanks without one, and take my chances.
I bought an Alaskan newspaper. I could see there was much unemployment up there in the land of opportunity. Her cities were crowded. There were many references to men stranding themselves without funds. Several pleas in the advertising section alarmed me. “Young man desperately needs work.” “Young man will do anything.”
I checked the Seattle Times carefully to see if anyone was driving up the Alaska-Canada Highway (also known as the Alcan) and wanted a passenger. That was like trying to fill an inside straight, but I’d continue to keep my eyes open just the same.
I wandered the streets to get oriented. Soldiers and sailors prowled the sidewalks singly and in bands, looking into windows, and moving in and out of the shops. Nobody seemed to notice them. They didn’t give the impression of being proud of their uniforms. I remembered how proud I’d been of mine, but times were different then. The country was together.
I strolled along the waterfront. Sockeye salmon, gutted and slab-sided, lay on beds of crushed ice. SEND A SALMON EAST, a sign read. AS LOW AS $10.50. Anna would be pleased with one of them, I decided, so I sent her one. I wasn’t surprised that it cost me $12.50. The low price advertised must have been reserved for the east bank of the Mississippi, the farthest west you could be and still call it “East” here. Piles of crabs rested on folded legs. Men in short rubber boots hosed the wooden and cement floors, sloshing debris off the edges. The smell of fish and seaweed hung in the air. Masses of brown-leaved kelp waved in the Puget Sound swells, like fronds of coconut palms. Packing cases, cans, and papers bobbed in the water around the pilings.
If you don’t know what to do with something, I thought, just throw it off the pier. The ocean will take care of it.
I walked into the spacious People’s Savings Bank to cash a Traveler’s Cheque. I was still wearing my moccasin boots. Even though they felt like gloves, I needed something more appropriate for town wear. A squat character pounced on me from the ambush of his doorway.
“What size you wear? Come in. Come in. You come to the right place. I sell cheaper than any other place in town. Where you from? What kind of work you do, sir?” I let him rattle on until I was able to indicate what I wanted. Then I sat down. He unlaced a boot and slipped a loafer on my foot. I didn’t even say I’d take the shoes. I thought he was looking up another style. Instead, he was wrapping up the loafers.
“You don’t wear big, heavy shoes. People think you’re from the country. Wear these. Look like a civilian. Eleven ninety-five,” he concluded.
Think you’re from the country. In the next few hours, his words rang in my brain. I decided to do some investigating. I took the shoes around to various shoe stores and tried to find out whether or not I had been taken. Of course, the proprietors dismissed my queries by saying that they could not put down a competitor, but in doing so they gave me the slight hints I was looking for. I watched their faces when I told them what I had paid. Finally, an old Swede, bless his heart, told me that they were cheap shoes, that he sold them for $8.00. I could have kissed him.
I stomped back to the first store like a Nazi Storm Trooper. “Here’s the boy with the big shoes back and he wants his money!” I said. I slammed the shoes on the counter. “Those shoes are worth about $8.00. When you size up a sucker next time, look a little farther than the shoes he wears.” He argued. If he was bigger, I think I’d have swung at him. I got my money back and I returned to the old Swede’s shop and bought a good pair. I felt I had won my fight. If I couldn’t trust people, I could now be on my guard and weigh every dealing with cold suspicion.
Author’s journal, July 15, 1952
I wasted the day wandering through the streets. A brooding concentration. Did I try to run away from life? Am I ashamed of what I have done with college up until now? Whether I get a job or not, I must go to Alaska. I must go for pride will not let me return yet to the east. And yet I can’t help but think that this “land of opportunity” rage out here is a sucker’s game.
I had no idea what I was going to do, but it was time to find a job, any job.
During the next few days I visited the offices of several contractors with jobs in Alaska. They were interested in tradesmen, not laborers. Laborers they could hire on the scene. College didn’t count unless you were an engineer or an accountant. College just put you in a different league. I wondered how many educated derelicts there were wandering on Skid Row. I stumbled on a notice posted by the Navy. Laborers were being hired for Adak and Kodiak.
IF INTERESTED, REPORT TO THE ALASKA RECRUITING OFFICE AT PIER 91.
I was walking, and by Pier 63 I decided that Pier 91 would be easier reached by trolleybus. I didn’t know what the fare was. I fumbled for change, revealing my insecurity in my surroundings. As I sat down, I didn’t notice the girl sitting next to the open seat. A few minutes later I was surveying her shapely legs, the perfect swelling of her calves, the thin ankles dropping into black, high-heeled pumps. Her eyes were a sparkling blue, her lips moist and the red of strawberries. I kept stealing glances at her.
“Pier 91 and Carleton Park,” the bus driver announced.
The girl got up to leave. I followed her out. I guess I still looked bewildered by my surroundings, because the girl smiled.
“Pier 91 is over there,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. She smiled again. Her teeth were like the first snow