A Night In Ketchikan

A Scene From the Memories Of A Logger's Kid

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Yesterday I spent hours raking my almost two acres of lawn. This yearly right of seasonal passage is the first major chore that I undertake when the snow melts away to reveal all the detritus that nature, my children, and the animals have left behind around the farm. My mom showed up for a visit, and after I made everyone a pile of homemade pizza, she and I went back outside to chat while I tended the yard waste fire and raked some more. As we were talking about my dad, who is currently on an island in Alaska setting up a brand new logging camp, I had a flash back to one of the most surreal nights of my life.

As a child, it was common for Dad to head to some remote outpost in Alaska without us. He would either work for a few months until he could bring us to whatever camp or place he was dwelling in, or he would he would meet up with us for what I like to call a "conjugal visit." with Mom. During such visits, he would either come home to wherever we were currently dwelling, or we would meet him in a town that was convenient. A lot of the time, that town was Ketchikan, Alaska.

Ketchikan is the first major port of call on the Inside Passage cruise circuit, so there are some huge docks flanking the one flat road in town. Most of the town's buildings perch on the steep hillsides, and if you like totem poles, looking at old houses of "ill repute" perched on creekside pilings, and perusing touristy stores full of Russian Dolls and Forget-Me-Not china (Alaska State Flower), then this is the town for you!

Ketchikan always brought about a different type of feeling in me, as it was usually a transition point. It was in Ketchikan that I would glean my last little bit of civilization. This thought was always in my mind as I ate a Quarter-Pounder at McDonalds, or rode the escalator in the little mall. The small city was always the mid-point stop of whatever adventure we were currently on.

One of my most memorable Ketchikan stays happened during the summer when my brother and I were young teens. We were meeting Dad after not seeing him for a few months. It being the height of tourist season, there were loads of gigantic cruise ships docked along the main drag of the town. We had our joyous family reunion and were heading toward the only hotel that we ever stayed at when we stopped by town, The Ingersoll. My parents have told me that the square, three story lodging place no longer goes by that name, but it will always be the Ingersoll to me.

A picture from the time we all met up in Ketchikan for Christmas! Legendary times.

As we stood in the lobby, waiting for mom to get us checked it, it was announced that the Bro and I were to get our own room! Our faces lit up with the joy that can only result when a young person is given their own, unsupervised space. Our glee grew further when I was given the key to our navy blue and pink flower bedecked space of pure freedom! As Ma and Pa walked off hand and hand to their honeymoon suite of reunion, Bro quickly turned on the TV and cranked up the volume. The grunge-tinged melody of Nirvana became the soundtrack of our moment of adolescent achievement. Our delight only grew when we found that Mom had let us have the room facing the main street. I threw open the flower bedecked curtain and found myself facing the upper decks of a Princess cruise ship that was moored directly across from us.

A short time later we wandered over to the little cafe that was underneath the hotel across the street. One cheeseburger and a cup of my favorite clam chowder later we found ourselves dodging tourists as we tried to navigate our way back to our rooms. It was then that I had one of the most rude encounters of my short life.

I had turned back to look at dad, as he had cracked a joke, when someone ran right into me.

"Oh!" I wheezed, "Please excuse me!"

"Why don't you watch where you are going, you filthy troglodyte," came the squeaky, nasal reply.

Being a rather avaricious reader, my ears seized on the troglodyte part of the utterance, and I focused on the creature that rammed into and subsequently insulted me.

Standing before me, looking all kinds of affronted, was a boy of about twelve. He was bedecked in full nautical gear, and before I could stop myself I blurted;

"I do so apologize Mr. Howell. I'm sure my cave-blinded eyes caused me to step right into your righteous path!" (I become a rather caustic, cold, and sarcastic being when insulted).

Mom and Dad were looking at some trinket in a window, but my brother's attention had been fully garnered by the extra from Gilligan's island.

"How dare you speak to me like that, you ignorant heathen!" pompous boy screeched in reply.

My brother has always had a big mouth, and actually I kind of love that about him. It has gotten us in trouble countless times, but sometimes his verbal brashness is appreciated.

"Well ham[1] Sis! This Gilligan's Island piece of spit[2] is all humped up[3]. What'd you do to miss off[4] Precious here?" Bro delivered these lines without even acknowledging Little Lord Fauntleroy.

The ill-mannered lout turned a shade of red that was most unbecoming and to be honest, clashed mightily with his navy blue dungarees. He proceeded to turn on his pristine white deck shoe heel and bellowed:

"Mother! These locals are harrasing me!"

My brother started guffawing and mimicking the rude boy, and I found myself tipping my teal Charlotte Hornets basketball cap at the entire overdressed family and thinking that general manners and courtesy must not be taught at over-priced prep schools.

As the bro and I rode the elevator back up to our polyester-coated bat cave, I had visions of procuring a prophylactic from one of the vending machines, filling it with shaving cream, and dropping it from our third story window right onto that jerk's perfectly coiffed head. That thought brought me no small amount of mirth, and I spent the next couple hours basking in it's diabolical warmth while eating M&M's and watching Pearl Jam videos.

Suddenly, at about 8:30 p.m., I heard bagpipes! Scotland the Brave blared through my open window. Jack and I bolted to its frame and leaned out to spy an entire brigade of bagpipers marching down the middle of the main street. It being a summer evening, there were people everywhere. Tourists off of the ships gazed at the spectacle as tourists do. Locals, loggers and fisherman pointed and chuckled at the brazenness of it all, and Bro and I dissolved giggles as we watched the pipers descend into the Sourdough bar. The bro returned to watching music videos, but I stayed perched in a chair by the window, watching the human tapestry below. I was in the middle of reading the collected works of John Steinbeck at that point in time, so the observation of the human condition was of great interest to me.

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Another thing that was of great interest to me was the bagpipers, who emerged for the bar a couple of hours later and burst into Scotland The Brave yet again, it being the battle cry of their descent into inebriation. This time the masterful song was not quite as glorious, but it was still recognizable as the pipers plodded down the street to their next drinking destination.

A couple hours and a few street brawls later, the musical interlude was repeated as the Scottish pipers changed venues yet again. We hung out of the window like a couple of panting cocker-spaniels watching the good-natured comradery and awed by the Alaskan Carnivale atmosphere.

The last march occurred around 2 A.M. The bro and I were watching the verboten Beavis and Butthead when all of a sudden we heard something that sounded like a cross between a train derailment and a coyote in a trash compactor. We bolted to our window to behold the scene.

The liquor had taken a toll on our noble bagpipers. I peered out of my 20th century tower and spied a kilted warrior stumble to the curb. He sat there, arms on his knees, his bagpipe wailing like a dying yak. The rest of the plaid be-decked minstrels had fared no better, and the resulting cacophony that was screeching out of the bagpipes played like a half speed warped record. The brigade fumbled their forms and instruments down the street in a drunken stupor, and the Bro and I weren't the only people laughing at the spectacle.

All of these years later, whenever I hear the delightful tune of Scotland the Brave, I think of drunken bagpipers with their plaid berets askew, grunge rock, blue and pink polyester bedspreads, a pompous member of the upper class, and most of all that warm and cuddly feeling of being reunited as a family once more.

And as always, unless otherwise cited, the image in this post was taken on the author's iPhone, of another image that was on her aunt's most excellent table last weekend.

[1] An earthen or concrete barrier designed to block water
[2] fecal matter
[3] A term that my family utilizes whenever we spy someone who is either going to blow out of anger or holds that emotion inside them in a soon to be passively aggressive expressed way.
[4] urine-tinged expression commonly ascribed to a person who has been brought to anger.