In January of 1972 you could have found me sitting in First Class on an airplane headed for Cordova, Alaska.  I would have been drinking a glass of champagne with the man who had dared me to go big game hunting with him in Alaska, Sully.  

He was 28 years older than I, but I could barely keep up with the man. He was a customer where I worked, a successful dynamo of a man who traveled the world big game hunting.

Of course when he “dared” me to go hunting I accepted, knowing full well there was no way I could get off work for two weeks to flit off to Alaska with him.  I had grossly underestimated him.  He traded two tickets to the Superbowl  (with the airfare to New Orleans) for me to be able to go with him.  So this is how I came to be on this trip to go hunting for mountain goat.

For a week before we left Sully had tried to prepare me, “Hey Pee-Wee, you need to buy some warm clothing.”  So I shopped for a coat, some gloves, a couple of sweaters, and of course, some fashionable boots. 

“Hey Pee-Wee, I’m taking you to the shooting range for some practice shooting.”  And I shot at some paper targets, doing pretty well.

Sully and I were not the only ones to go, we had two of his hunting buddies with us, Dale and Fred.  One of them was an accountant, the other I forget what he did, but I was the only girl along.

Once in Cordova I quickly realized it was a small fishing village, known for the salmon cannery.

Overview of Cordova, Alaska 

 I also realized I was freezing cold. The clothing I bought in a department store in Oakland was never meant to be worn in Alaska’s outdoors.  Though hot pants were in fashion, I didn't realize there would be no place in Alaska, in January, where they would look "right".  I took them.  I was so naïve.

Cordova was a thriving little port town during the summer, but now, in the dead of winter only a few brave souls stayed behind to keep their businesses open; the operator of the small motel, a couple of bars and a diner.  The influx of the four of us meant new blood, and new money...and we partied hard with the locals, especially since the weather wasn’t good, and we couldn’t go out hunting yet.  We hoped it would clear up soon.  There wasn't much sun during the day, so we drank, sang, danced and created quite the party atmosphere from afternoon onward. 

On about day three the weather was such that we could get out of town for the hunt or at least to sight-see and maybe spot some goat.  Sully had seen how woefully inadequate my idea for “cold weather”  clothing was, and had the foresight to bring extra along for me.  (Fortunately he was a small man, so while they were big, they were still not huge.)  

We woke up early and went to the diner for a big breakfast.  We were scheduled to get to the airstrip to choose our planes and pilot/guides by 5 a.m.   Before we paid the bill, I asked the waitress for a ham and cheese sandwich to go.  Something nagging was stuck in my mind about being out in the wilderness and not having any food.  The guys all laughed at me, being confident we would be back in time for lunch.  Hey, what did I know about hunting anyway?  Being prepared couldn’t hurt.  I shoved the sandwich into my pocket.

Once at the airstrip I saw four single engine planes all lined up. 

“Which one do you want?”  Sully asked.

“Ummm, I guess I’ll take the red-winged one.”  The pilot’s name was Buddy.  Apparently he was very experienced and a good choice...considering I was choosing by airplane color I was thrilled.  I had a feeling Buddy didn't mind either.

Buddy and me with our plane. (Note the sandwich.)

The plane was very small, just a seat for Buddy and directly behind him a single seat for me. 

“Buckle up tight.”  He said just before the noise of the propeller would silence us from communicating.

Soon all of us were up in the air in our separate planes flying in a loose formation over incredible vistas of snow and ice.  I was astounded by the depth of the ice crevices, and the color of the ice; so deep an aqua bluish color.

Sully’s plane flew off to our right wing...where I could look over and see him.  It was thrilling to be up in the air.  Just as I relaxed we hit some turbulence and I discovered my seatbelt was not tight; over the down filled jacket I had not realized how much of it was air, so up I went and hit my head on the metal X on the interior of the roof.  I’ll admit it stunned me, but hard head that I have I was merely in a little bit of pain.

As I snapped photos out of the window, I had this incredible feeling of being a pioneer in this wilderness.

Out of the plane window.

It was nearly overwhelming, but then Buddy said we were going to land on the mountain he was pointing to.  It was a fairly wide, flat surface and with the skis on the plane it proved to be fairly effortless for both our plane and Sully’s to land.  (You could land on snow or water.)  The other two went ahead, still scouting for some mountain goat.

When we hopped out of our respective planes Buddy reached into his small cargo hold and pulled out a couple of pairs of snowshoes.

In no way had I been prepared to walk on those tennis racquet looking apparatus, but would quickly discover without them it was impossible to walk; the fresh powdery snow was too deep, and even my slight size would sink me down to my crotch.  It took only a moment to realize, as I was pulled out by Sully and his guide, already having put them on.    

Walking in snowshoes is not an easy task.  It is cumbersome, and you need to take large enough steps as to not trip yourself on the other one, something more easily explained than done.  After a few attempts I had it pretty well down and lumbered forward carefully.   As the blue sky overhead stretched out, for what seemed like an eternity around me, again I was moved to tears by the magnificent beauty of it, as well as with the certain knowledge that quite possibly no other human had walked here before me.  It reminded me of the lunar landing in the magnitude of my feelings of inadequacy and immediate realization that this would be an important moment in my psyche. 

Then I did what any kid would do, I began to stomp out in huge letters, “Sheila was here.”  Silly, yet even in the temporary moment of my snow graffiti, I felt I made a tiny mark.  It would be the first of several I would make in Alaska.

To be continued....