Blue Gold

Austin kept them amused by reciting poems of Robert Ser vice which Zavala translated into Spanish. But even "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" didn't dull the monotony of their quest. Zavala's usual good humor was begi

Austin studied the shaded portions of his map. A substantial amount of coastline had yet to be covered.

"We've still got a lot of territory to check out. I'd like to keep on going. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, but the plane is going to need fuel before long."

"We passed what looked like a fishing camp a short while back. How about breaking for lunch while we tank up old Betsy here?"

Zavala responded by putting the plane into a banking circle. Before long they picked up the river they had flown over earlier and followed it for about ten minutes until they sighted a cluster of plywood shacks. Two float planes were tied up in the river. Zavala scoped out a straight stretch of water. He brought the plane down, skimmed the surface in a near perfect landing, and taxied the plane up to a weather-beaten pier. A stocky young man with a face as round as a full moon saw them coming and threw out a mooring line.

"Welcome to Tinook Village, population one hundred and sixty-seven, most of them related," he said with a smile as dazzling as sunlight on new snow. "My name is Mike Tinook."

Tinook didn't appear surprised to have a couple of strangers drop out of the sky to visit his remote village. With vast distances to cover Alaskans will fly a hundred miles just to have breakfast. Perhaps it has something to do with the scarcity of human contact outside Anchorage, but most Alaskans spin out their stories about how they came north within five minutes of making an acquaintance. Mike related how he grew up in the village, worked as an airplane mechanic in Anchorage, and came back home to stay.

Austin explained they were with the National Underwater amp; Marine Agency.

"Had you figured for some kind of government guys," Tinook said knowingly. "Too clean for oil men or hunters and too sure of yourselves to be tourists. We had a NUMA team drop by a few years ago. They were doing research in the Chukchi Sea. What brings you to the Land of the Midnight Sun?"

"We're doing sort of a geological survey, but I must confess that we're not having much success," Austin said. "We're looking for a point of land that sticks out into the water. It's shaped like an eagle's beak."

Tinook shook his head. "That's my plane out there. I do a lot of flying when I'm not fishing or helping to tend the reindeer herd, but it doesn't ring a bell. C'mon up to the store. We can look at a map." They climbed a rickety staircase to the plywood building. It was the typical Alaskan general store, a combination of grocery, pharmaceutical, hardware, gift shop, and wilderness outfitter. Customers could take their pick from insect repellent, ca

Tinook checked a wall map of the area. "Nope. Nothing like an eagle's beak." He scratched his head. "Maybe you should talk to Clarence."

"Clarence?"

"Yeah, my grandfather. He used to get around a lot and likes visitors."

Austin's eyes glazed over. He was impatient to get in the air again. He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to put Tinook off without hurting his feelings, when he noticed a rifle hung on the wall behind the counter. He walked over for a closer look. It was a Carbine Ml, the workhorse rifle carried by American infantrymen in World War II. He had seen M1's before, but this was in exceptionally mint condition.

"Is that your rifle?" he asked Tinook.

"My grandfather gave it to me, but I use my own gun for hunting. That thing has got quite a story behind it. Sure you wouldn't want to talk to Clarence? Might be worth your while."

Zavala saw Austin's newfound interest. "I wouldn't mind stretching my legs for a while longer. At least we don't have to worry about getting home before dark."

Joe's point was well taken. Daylight was more than twenty two hours long, and even after the sun set, technically, night was only a short period of dusk.

Mike guided them along a muddy street past more shacks, gangs of round-faced children, sleeping huskies, and racks where crimson strips of salmon dried in the sun. He went up to the door of a shack smaller than the others and knocked. Someone inside told them to come in. They stepped into the one-room house. It smelled of wood smoke and something meaty cooking on a camp stove. The house was sparsely furnished with a bunk bed in one corner and a table covered with a red-and-white checkered oilcloth. A man who looked as old as a glacier sat at the table carefully painting a wooden polar bear figure about six inches high. Several others figures of wolves and eagles had been painted and lined up.

"Grandpa, these men would like to hear the story about your rifle."

Dark Oriental eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor from a face creased in a thousand wrinkles. Clarence wore dark-framed glasses, and his thick silvery hair was neatly parted on one side. His mouth widened in a grin that seemed to take over his whole jaw. Although he must have been in his eighties, he shook hands in a bone-crunching grip and looked as if he could still wrestle a sea lion to the floor. Yet the voice that should have been amplified by the powerful frame was as soft as wind-blown snow.

His grandson said, "I have to go back to the shop. I'll have the plane refueled by the time you get back."

"I make these for the gift shops in Anchorage," the old man said, putting the polar bear and paints aside. "Glad you dropped by. You're just in time for lunch." He indicated a couple of rickety chairs, and, refusing the protests of his guests, he spooned the stew from the stove pot into some chipped willow-pattern china bowls. He took a big spoonful as if to show there was no harm in his cooking. "How is it?"

Austin and Zavala tentatively sampled the stew and pronounced it quite good.

The old man beamed with pleasure.

"Is it caribou?" Zavala asked.

The old man reached into a trash bucket and pulled out a can of Dinty Moore beef stew.

"Mike's a good boy," Clarence said. "He and his wife buy me stuff so I won't have to cook. They worry that I'm lonely since my wife died. I like visitors, but I don't want to bore you men."

Austin looked around the room. The walls were decorated with primitive harpoons and Eskimo folk art. A Norman Rock well print with the boy sitting in the dentist's office was hung in congruously next to a fierce walrus mask. There were family pictures, including many of a stout, handsome woman who could have been the old man's wife. The most out-of-place object was a computer tucked in the corner. Grandpa Tinook saw Austin's amused gaze and said, "It's amazing. We've got the satellite so the kids can learn about the rest of the world. I can talk on that machine with anyone, so I'm never alone."

Clarence was no old blubber-chewing windbag, Austin deduced. He was sorry he had been in such a rush to avoid meeting him. "If you don't mind, we'd very much like to hear your story," he said.

Grandpa Tinook noisily scooped up the last of his stew, put the bowls in the sink, and sat down again. He squinted as if the memory were hard to recall, but when he started to talk it was clear he had spun this tale before.

"One day many years ago I was out hunting. There was some good trout and salmon fishing, fox to trap, and herds of caribou. I always got something. I had this little aluminum skiff and a fine motor. Got me around pretty good. It was too far to come home after the hunt, so I used to stay over a couple of nights at the old airfield."