away from Chiloe in geographical space and millions of miles away in cultural evolution, and though my present surroundings were wholly different, the sensation was so alike. But I didnât dwell on the comparative facts of my thoughts; instead I accepted the coincidental reality of my feelings, and with that the watchfulness wasnât threatening any more, or at least it made me feel less apprehensive.
I was dragged out of my reverie by Mary poking me in the back with her paddle. As I turned to her she pointed upward. Above me I saw the almost vaporous V of some twenty or so geese moving in the luminous sky. They were turning at an angle away from us and were soon gone. Mary and Pat were trying to decide whether they were geese or swan. Mary resolved that they were trumpeter swan, and that was a sure sign that summer would be with us in less than a week.
As we continued I would occasionally catch a glimpse of something in the distance, and when I questioned what it might be I was informed it was âthe pipelineâ. I had been contemplating a few minutes earlier how everything in nature had a personality, but the manner in which my question had been answered confirmed that the pipeline also had its own separate existence.
âOil and Alaska are synonymous terms to the outside world,â I ventured.
Pat was quick to respond. âThe pipeline has funded almost single-handedly, directly or indirectly, the development of Alaska. But the relationship of Alaskans with the pipeline is an uneasy one. As I see it, there are two major problems to beresolved.â I had begun to notice that, like all scientific minds, Pat thought in lists of facts to be examined. âHow much oil is there left on the North Slope? Some say another thirty years, or more if Bushâs government opens up the Arctic Refuge to exploitation. And secondly, can the existing structure withstand another thirty years? If permafrost thaw is to continue at an accelerating rate then the seventy-eight thousand structures that carry the pipe some eight hundred miles to Valdez are in serious danger. The cost of constant renewal would be astronomical. And while these shortsighted engineers and politicians who are in the pockets of the oil company continue to insist that things wonât happen overnight, they are only adding to the catastrophic dimension of the whole thing.â
âOkay, Pat, we want you to steer us back before you have a coronary,â Mary shouted. Nevertheless, she continued trying to explain to me just how hot a potato the pipeline was with everyone in Alaska.
âYes, and with a lot of know-nothings who donât live here,â Pat injected, refusing to allow the subject to be put to bed. But neither his wife nor I was prepared to pursue the matter. Permafrost, global warming and a devious but all-powerful oildollar were bigger issues than the three of us could resolve. The river course was, in any case, bringing us into Fairbanks again.
Chena riverside land is prime real estate, and the size and flamboyance of the homes confirmed it. Many of them had their own small jetties, and the others, not to be outdone, had small floatplanes moored at the end of their properties. It was an astonishing change from only an hour ago in the wilderness, where everything was so sensual and mysterious. Here, the senses became cluttered with mundane things such as the backyards of these solid but sumptuous homes.
As we paddled on into the heart of the city Mary confessed that she was a writer herself and had penned several short stories but was now working on a novel. I was keen to know what an Alaskan writer has to write about, and asked her. Her best story was the tale of an old Indian woman looking back on her life. Thenovel, which Mary was still working on, had as its overall theme the emergence from loneliness and finding a new sense of purpose. Listening to Mary and quietly comparing my own limited experience of Alaska, I
I was dragged out of my reverie by Mary poking me in the back with her paddle. As I turned to her she pointed upward. Above me I saw the almost vaporous V of some twenty or so geese moving in the luminous sky. They were turning at an angle away from us and were soon gone. Mary and Pat were trying to decide whether they were geese or swan. Mary resolved that they were trumpeter swan, and that was a sure sign that summer would be with us in less than a week.
As we continued I would occasionally catch a glimpse of something in the distance, and when I questioned what it might be I was informed it was âthe pipelineâ. I had been contemplating a few minutes earlier how everything in nature had a personality, but the manner in which my question had been answered confirmed that the pipeline also had its own separate existence.
âOil and Alaska are synonymous terms to the outside world,â I ventured.
Pat was quick to respond. âThe pipeline has funded almost single-handedly, directly or indirectly, the development of Alaska. But the relationship of Alaskans with the pipeline is an uneasy one. As I see it, there are two major problems to beresolved.â I had begun to notice that, like all scientific minds, Pat thought in lists of facts to be examined. âHow much oil is there left on the North Slope? Some say another thirty years, or more if Bushâs government opens up the Arctic Refuge to exploitation. And secondly, can the existing structure withstand another thirty years? If permafrost thaw is to continue at an accelerating rate then the seventy-eight thousand structures that carry the pipe some eight hundred miles to Valdez are in serious danger. The cost of constant renewal would be astronomical. And while these shortsighted engineers and politicians who are in the pockets of the oil company continue to insist that things wonât happen overnight, they are only adding to the catastrophic dimension of the whole thing.â
âOkay, Pat, we want you to steer us back before you have a coronary,â Mary shouted. Nevertheless, she continued trying to explain to me just how hot a potato the pipeline was with everyone in Alaska.
âYes, and with a lot of know-nothings who donât live here,â Pat injected, refusing to allow the subject to be put to bed. But neither his wife nor I was prepared to pursue the matter. Permafrost, global warming and a devious but all-powerful oildollar were bigger issues than the three of us could resolve. The river course was, in any case, bringing us into Fairbanks again.
Chena riverside land is prime real estate, and the size and flamboyance of the homes confirmed it. Many of them had their own small jetties, and the others, not to be outdone, had small floatplanes moored at the end of their properties. It was an astonishing change from only an hour ago in the wilderness, where everything was so sensual and mysterious. Here, the senses became cluttered with mundane things such as the backyards of these solid but sumptuous homes.
As we paddled on into the heart of the city Mary confessed that she was a writer herself and had penned several short stories but was now working on a novel. I was keen to know what an Alaskan writer has to write about, and asked her. Her best story was the tale of an old Indian woman looking back on her life. Thenovel, which Mary was still working on, had as its overall theme the emergence from loneliness and finding a new sense of purpose. Listening to Mary and quietly comparing my own limited experience of Alaska, I
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