Several years ago, my family lived in Ruby, Alaska, a small village on the Yukon River where we were previously missionaries. A century before this time, Ruby was a booming gold mining town of the Alaskan Gold Rush. Men and families, hoping to strike it rich, ventured into the wilderness of mountains and spruce trees outside of Ruby by way of a forty-mile dirt road. Even today, the hills are rich with gold, but presently just a few folks, hoping to make a profitable living, mine in the area of Ruby.
We were good friends with a true Alaskan gold miner named Mike during our years in Ruby. Mike's place at the end of the forty-mile road was truly rustic. His yard was scattered with mining machinery and vehicles. Besides his house, other buildings included several sheds and an outhouse. All of his electricity came from a gas-powered generator.
Mike's property was inhabited by his numerous “pets.” Mike befriended the creatures of the wood, luring them with crackers and pancakes until they learned to trust him. They were frequent visitors, sometimes the only other living, breathing creatures he would see for months. Among his little friends were a porcupine, furry rabbits, and birds called camp robbers. Mike trained the birds to "steal" crackers out of his shirt pocket. He had an amazing way with animals.
Mike kept us quite entertained whenever he came to visit us at our home in the village. He told us many humorous tales of his pets and experiences of gold mining, hunting, trapping, and encounters with bears just outside his front door. He once shot a bear between his home and outhouse. It was a good thing he kept a rifle in the smaller building! =)
My dad and brother usually dropped by Mike’s mining camp for a visit whenever they were out that way, which usually happened while they were moose hunting or on a camping trip. Several times my dad helped Mike run his sluice box. He learned that gold mining is not a job of ease but requires much patience, endurance and physical strength. Even then, the odds of making a sizable profit is slim. Fortunately for Mike, mining was something he truly enjoyed.
One sunny Alaskan summer's day, my family piled into our trusty blue Ford pick-up truck to visit Mike. My parents and younger sister rode in the cab of the truck while my older sister, brother and I rode in the enclosed back. We rattled along the dusty road through mountainous terrain. Other than bouncing in our seats as we hit bumps in the road and nearly falling out of our chairs as we climbed steep hills, all was uneventful. My sister, brother and I talked to each other every once in a while, although it was difficult due to the din of the loud motor and the clattering of the truck; it was necessary to shout in order to be heard. Riding in the back of good Ol’ Blue was always memorable.
Then it happened: a flat tire. All at once, we all felt a distinct and tremendous bump. Dad pulled the truck over and we all climbed out of the truck so he could change the tire, then we were off again. A short time passed when we felt the same bumping again and our hearts simultaneously sank. We had only one spare tire. What were we to do?
We pulled over to the side of the gravel road once more and exited the truck, realizing that our plan to visit Mike that day was not going to come to fruition. It was lunchtime, the time we were expecting to be at Mike’s camp, so we ate our picnic lunch while the swarms of mosquitoes had their own meal. Dad built a campfire on the side of the road and we roasted hot dogs. Despite our circumstances, we had an enjoyable time. However, we there wasn't much to occupy our time except anticipate the viewing of a vehicle coming our way, the signal of help to our demise. Ruby’s population is very small, under 200 people, so we realized that our wait would be a lengthy one. We sat for hours in the beautiful quietness of the woods around us, the silence broken occasionally by birds’ singing. Beneath the afternoon sun we talked while swatting mosquitoes, occasionally glancing up and down the road for oncoming vehicles.
At long last, in the distance we beheld dust billowing up from the dirt road. Someone is coming! was our unanimous, gladsome conclusion. We all stood, eagerly expectant. The vehicle neared and we saw that it was our friends, the Gurtler's. They stopped their truck and greeted us, and upon Dad’s relating our flat tire and situation, they graciously extended their help. Relieved, we climbed into their vehicle and were on our way back to the village. However, Dad stayed behind with the truck because Mr. Gurtler would be immediately returning with a usable tire so Dad could get the truck home.
Before long we were home and very glad. The next time we ventured to visit Mike, we ensured beforehand that our spare tire was in good condition, not wishing to repeat the situation.
We were good friends with a true Alaskan gold miner named Mike during our years in Ruby. Mike's place at the end of the forty-mile road was truly rustic. His yard was scattered with mining machinery and vehicles. Besides his house, other buildings included several sheds and an outhouse. All of his electricity came from a gas-powered generator.
Mike's property was inhabited by his numerous “pets.” Mike befriended the creatures of the wood, luring them with crackers and pancakes until they learned to trust him. They were frequent visitors, sometimes the only other living, breathing creatures he would see for months. Among his little friends were a porcupine, furry rabbits, and birds called camp robbers. Mike trained the birds to "steal" crackers out of his shirt pocket. He had an amazing way with animals.
Mike kept us quite entertained whenever he came to visit us at our home in the village. He told us many humorous tales of his pets and experiences of gold mining, hunting, trapping, and encounters with bears just outside his front door. He once shot a bear between his home and outhouse. It was a good thing he kept a rifle in the smaller building! =)
My dad and brother usually dropped by Mike’s mining camp for a visit whenever they were out that way, which usually happened while they were moose hunting or on a camping trip. Several times my dad helped Mike run his sluice box. He learned that gold mining is not a job of ease but requires much patience, endurance and physical strength. Even then, the odds of making a sizable profit is slim. Fortunately for Mike, mining was something he truly enjoyed.
One sunny Alaskan summer's day, my family piled into our trusty blue Ford pick-up truck to visit Mike. My parents and younger sister rode in the cab of the truck while my older sister, brother and I rode in the enclosed back. We rattled along the dusty road through mountainous terrain. Other than bouncing in our seats as we hit bumps in the road and nearly falling out of our chairs as we climbed steep hills, all was uneventful. My sister, brother and I talked to each other every once in a while, although it was difficult due to the din of the loud motor and the clattering of the truck; it was necessary to shout in order to be heard. Riding in the back of good Ol’ Blue was always memorable.
Then it happened: a flat tire. All at once, we all felt a distinct and tremendous bump. Dad pulled the truck over and we all climbed out of the truck so he could change the tire, then we were off again. A short time passed when we felt the same bumping again and our hearts simultaneously sank. We had only one spare tire. What were we to do?
We pulled over to the side of the gravel road once more and exited the truck, realizing that our plan to visit Mike that day was not going to come to fruition. It was lunchtime, the time we were expecting to be at Mike’s camp, so we ate our picnic lunch while the swarms of mosquitoes had their own meal. Dad built a campfire on the side of the road and we roasted hot dogs. Despite our circumstances, we had an enjoyable time. However, we there wasn't much to occupy our time except anticipate the viewing of a vehicle coming our way, the signal of help to our demise. Ruby’s population is very small, under 200 people, so we realized that our wait would be a lengthy one. We sat for hours in the beautiful quietness of the woods around us, the silence broken occasionally by birds’ singing. Beneath the afternoon sun we talked while swatting mosquitoes, occasionally glancing up and down the road for oncoming vehicles.
At long last, in the distance we beheld dust billowing up from the dirt road. Someone is coming! was our unanimous, gladsome conclusion. We all stood, eagerly expectant. The vehicle neared and we saw that it was our friends, the Gurtler's. They stopped their truck and greeted us, and upon Dad’s relating our flat tire and situation, they graciously extended their help. Relieved, we climbed into their vehicle and were on our way back to the village. However, Dad stayed behind with the truck because Mr. Gurtler would be immediately returning with a usable tire so Dad could get the truck home.
Before long we were home and very glad. The next time we ventured to visit Mike, we ensured beforehand that our spare tire was in good condition, not wishing to repeat the situation.
2 comments:
I enjoyed reading that, Naomi! You should write a book about all your experiences in Alaska! That would be so neat!
Mom and Dad have often mentioned the same. =) Maybe some day... I can think of a few veteran Alaskan missionaries who most definitely NEED to write books about their ministries and incredible experiences.
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