Juneau is the capital of Alaska. It has been on my mind since I first saw Glacier Bay pictures. I flew there in a ten-passenger seaplane, a new experience for me. The plane had wheels and pontoons for floating. We taxied from a gravel tarmac in Juneau but landed on pontoons on a lake in Glacier Bay. The National Park Service issued a free two-night camping permit in a remote corner called Scidmore within the Glacier Bay limit. I boarded the tourist boat, which dropped me on a rocky shore. I planned to bivouac in my one-person sleep sac. The ranger advised renting a palm-sized folding shovel to dig holes for morning rituals and remove all waste from the site. She wanted to issue a bear-proof can for storing food. I assured her I would only have sealed single servings and stock the cache away. My other restriction was returning to the drop point every 24 hours. The boat left, and I was on my own.      

The first feeling was that no one was around for miles. I thought of hermits longing for such solitude. I heard the howling of the wind and the rustling of waves, but no chirping of bugs. Alaska is famous for bee-sized mosquitoes, but not in this spot. I was the only living soul on this Islet. As if to assure me, a minke whale surfaced with a fountain of water not far from shore. The boat skipper said that a pod of minke whales entered the bay. They are a smaller species that is still hunted for food. There were clouds, but possibly little chance of rain. I hoped that it wouldn’t affect me while I was here. Summer is not the best time, but the park ranger assured me I would see some.          

Winter is the best time to see the northern lights. Their intensity depends on what is happening on the sun’s surface, millions of miles away. The park reception informed us that a strong solar wind was in place. Lights will likely appear when the sky gets darker, but that was still hours away near the Arctic Circle. I thought of Joe, using his view camera to capture the green flash on his black and white film. I pushed aside these thoughts and looked for a good spot for my tent. I chose where I would store my food and dispose of the waste. My food cache, waste bins and tents were all separated. Bears swam from place to place. Neither the bear nor I wanted any surprises.     

I recalled the pony-tailed park ranger at the reception. She said, “A bear encounter won’t happen when you do what we say. Even if you come across a bear, hold your ground and stand up. Don’t run. Make eye contact, but don’t laugh. Displaying teeth is a challenge. If it still approaches, talk to it.” I was surprised, “Talk! I would then sing nursery rhymes.” I smiled. She was severe and raised her finger, “Nope! The bears have seen hikers. A calm talk will ensure your identification. Bears are curious. If you sing, it might be interesting to investigate. Now, read these instructions carefully.” I was dumbfounded.  

She moved to attend a couple. I overheard, “Bears have a keen sense of smell. Blood is a call for food. You must pack up used feminine products in sealed packages.” The lady enquired, “Those who are on the cycle, can’t they hike?” The ranger mused, “There is no definite proof of what attracts a bear. But they learn fast. One thing is certain: they could smell you. Hundreds of hikers are coming into their territory. Visitors’ behaviours also train the bears, which is safe for both.” Bears weigh situations before acting aggressively. If you follow guidelines, these shouldn’t be an issue.” I signed for my tent space at ‘Skidmore Point’ and reached the dock.        

The daily Glacier Bay tour boat dropped me off at a rocky shore. A deckhand passed on a plastic water jar. A lady sightseer became concerned. She asked the skipper, “When shall we pick him up?” With a solemn voice but mischievous smile, the captain returned, “Not until I am ordered to do so. He might find bears as companions by then.” She was genuinely perplexed but joined with other passengers, waving me goodbye. There was no one else on this Islet. I took time to settle in my tent with a Hershey bar. I yelled at the top of my voice, “I own this island.” And then repeated it in Bengali, my mother tongue. Then, I remembered the captain and whispered, “Until a bear swims up here.”    

The lake water is a mix of salty seawater and ice from the glaciers. Since seawater is slightly denser, it sinks below the freshwater. The top layer is primarily the result of the continuous melting of glaciers. It is still salty but drinkable in an emergency for a short time. Ice harvested from the shore is, of course, pure. The National Park Service, however, prohibits drinking the lake water without treatment. I had a ration of a two-gallon jerrycan for two days. I could have boiled ice from the shore and extended my stay if I had a camping permit for an extended period.                  

I could see the Mergerie Glacier far north of my tent. The vista was incredible, with lakes and snowy white walls towering over the bay. The lakes were technically fjords, and the ice walls were tidewater glaciers. The glaciers advanced about three feet a day. It meant colossal ice walls were cracking and crumbling down on the water. It was one of the most dynamic and active landscapes in the world. I was sitting here on the ringside, gazing out across the bay’s calm water. I didn’t have binoculars, but I could still see the monstrous force from a safe distance. The sound reached a considerable gap after the ice wall turned into icebergs. I could sense how insignificant humanity is in the face of such natural forces. I reasoned why Sadhus went to the Himalayas to practice soul searching.           

The peak nearest to me across the channel had an interesting name. The Park Service map referred to it as Mt. Abdallah, an Islamic religious name meaning “Allah’s servant.” There must be someone in the team with such a name. The brochure stated that the area was surveyed in 1880 when the peak was so named. In the case of a desert, one could theorise that an arab was hired for expertise. Years later, someone in Israel informed me that some Jewish tribes did, in fact, use the name. A Jewish team member could be a possibility. It could even be a word from Tagalog, the local language of the local tribe. The mystery behind the name had remained with me.    

The dinner was simple but satisfying. I rented some camping utensils and a butane solid-fuel stove. I boiled the lake water and threw in a sealed plastic packet of chicken noodle soup. I also had plastic-sealed sandwiches. All my supplies were single servings. I carefully opened the packages with my Swiss Army knife, recalling the rangers’ advice about blood. I had instant coffee, and then I gathered all the used packages and kept them under a stone, even further from my tent.             

I returned to the tent and waited for darkness, which eventually came. The northern lights appeared above Mt. Abdallah. The lights could be of various hues, ranging from green to magenta and deep blue. I saw only green flickering lights across the sky. I stayed alone in the Scidmore camp under the green sky, which had a hypnotic effect for hours.  The wind picked up, and the soughing of the wind made eerie sounds, like a shoo and a whoosh. When the wind was down, I couldn’t see, but I could hear the cracking sound of ice walls falling into the bay. I even forgot about the bear repellent inside the tent that should have been next to me.      

I went to the mooring point the following day for the daily show-up rules. A couple disembarked. We were both disappointed. They thought the Islet would be theirs, and I lost my monarchy. The fact is, we are social animals. I brought them to the tent and shared my chocolates, which I had kept under a stone thirty feet away to avoid the bear scare. They smiled at that. They had the rest of the islets but chose to camp nearby. They knew about camping because they kept a distance for privacy. We cooked, shared food and stowed trash together. Ronald and Barbara were seasoned travellers. I told them about the northern lights. Ron asked, “Did you hear their moans?” I was surprised but said, “I heard the howling winds.” Barbara gave crucial tips about the Alaska Marine Highway System that helped me immensely with my next destination. After dinner, we sat next to our tents, pitched thirty feet away and were mesmerised again by the night’s flickering green lights.

I was worried about privacy for the morning rituals, but somehow, I didn’t face them in the dawn. During breakfast, Ron asked again, “Did you hear the winds?” I returned, “Oh, sure!” They smiled, and Ron explained, “Those were not from the wind, but the Northern light was barking.” He probably saw the disbelief on my face and continued. “Yes, Northern lights sometimes crack audible sound by charged particles. We were lucky that we witnessed it last night.” I left by the next boat with all my belongings, including trash, except the poops eight inches underground. My mates were not so lucky because another couple disembarked. I thanked my stars that, at least for a night, I owned the Glacier Bay.

I hit the highway again, but not on the asphalt. Barb’s suggestion was terrific. After I returned to Juneau, I purchased a ferry ticket to Valdez in the deck class. MV Columbia, a newly commissioned vessel, would sail in three days. It was a five-hundred-passenger capacity vessel, almost similar to a cruise ship. I purchased a cheap duffel bag and filled it with packed food. I also had to find a hardware store for some supplies. The dock on Glacier View Road was about fifteen miles from the city. The boarding time was at one o’clock, but I started early in the morning to hitch a ride. I was worried because I had a backpack, a duffel bag and a plastic shopping bag.

Surprisingly, I got a ride in twenty minutes. When I opened the door, the middle-aged driver with a tie and overcoat asked, “Boarding Columbia?” I was genuinely surprised but nodded. He said, “I am going to the dock. Get in.” I pushed my bags in the back seat, moved in, closed the door and asked, “How did you know, Sir?” He looked at me for a second, and I knew why. My accent and the word Sir drew his attention. He replied, “I work in the dock and know Columbia will leave this afternoon. Then, he smiled, “And where else can one go with grocery bags on this route? Where are you from anyway?” We started talking, but reached the destination in ten minutes.     

I was happy to see only two couples ahead of me in the line of passengers. Barbara explained the details. The Alaska Marine Highway System is a state-run enterprise serving coastal communities, with affordable ticket prices. In addition, deck ticket fares were artificially made lower for low-income people. I received a further discount for showing my student card. Barb explained everything graphically. When the gate opened, I walked along the gangway and kept right. I always had to go to the right and upstairs until I reached the ‘Forward deck’ sign, and then climb up those stairs.  

I followed Barb’s advice but was still sceptical. The two couples ahead of me were doing the same, so I knew what to do in the Forward deck. They kept their backpacks on lounge chairs under the heat lamps in a solarium with a glass roof. I had no preference for heat lamps, so I first chose the spot for my tent, which should be about thirty feet behind the prow on the starboard side. I dumped my backpack at my chosen spot and returned to place my duffel bag on my preferred lounge chair on the right side. Other deck passengers have arrived, and they are doing the same. Then I ran down the stairs to find the coin-operated locker and booked a small locker for my papers, such as my passport, money, purse, etc. Barb already told me to stock quarters for this.  

I leisurely climbed the stairs back to the forward deck and set up my flimsy one-person tent, where I had left the backpack. As Barb advised, I bought an extra rainfly from Junaeu and fixed it above the tent to prevent the direct seawater spray. It would allow the tent entrance zipper to be kept open for view and efficient ventilation. Barb asked to buy the best sticky tape from a building supply store. It came to help fix the tent ropes on the deck. I had no idea that the authority allowed fixing the tent on the deck. The deck quickly became a camping spot, and I snagged one of the best spots. Thus, I saw whales, seals and the coastlines all day, lazily lying in my sleeping bag.

The food was equally convenient. In the cafeteria, hot water, ice, and ovens were free. At the time, not all home kitchens were equipped with microwaves. I had never seen it before and was wide-eyed to use a large microwave machine with a small oven for the first time. My grocery bags had packed food and soft drinks. Free access to kitchen facilities made the food excellent. So was the whale watching, lying in sleeping bags on the deck. I remained grateful to Barb and Ron for their advice.

We reached Valdez the following day. It was a booming town at the time. It was crowded because the Alaska pipeline construction was in its last stage. Oil from the Arctic Sea was to be transported eight hundred miles south to the Valdez terminal for tankers destined for California refineries. Before docking, I learnt from a crew member that the bi-monthly Aleutian Island ferry would leave in two days. It used to start from Whittier but had now extended to Valdez due to heavy demand. The fare was even lower on a per-nautical-mile basis for these fishing communities, which was music to the ears.

I knew Aleutian Island looked like a pincer of a crab extended to the ocean, and almost nothing else except a trivia question. On its tip was the Attu Station, which the Japanese invaded in 1942. Since it crossed the 180th meridian, Attu is technically in the eastern hemisphere. Therefore, it is the easternmost place in the United States, and the sun rises first here, not in Japan but on United States soil.                  

I inquired about Attu with the crew. He smiled, explaining it was off-limits except for the Coast Guard. He added, “You can take a routine ferry boat to Dutch Harbour.” I hurried to see the large Alaska map mounted on the ship’s lobby walls, but could not find it on the map. When I reached Valdez at the Kelsey Dock, I appeared at the Ferry booking counter and asked for a Dutch Harbour deck class ticket. I got the ticket for a four-day journey before knowing where I was heading. I found a sailing route map on a notice board showing Dutch Harbour on Unalaska Island. I only knew about Alaska, but the name Unalaska seemed interesting. I left for the town but must return to the dock in two days to board the feeder ship.          

Exiting the terminal building, I saw a delivery truck about to pull out of the parking bay. I smiled at the driver and gave them a thumbs-up sign. He raised his eyebrows to ask for my destination. I said, “Downtown for a place to stay.” He motioned his head to climb up, which I did, and cheerfully said, “Thank you.” He barely nodded and started the engine, but remained silent. I had to do the same. I realised why because the ride was very short. He turned to Hazelet Avenue and, in minutes, dropped me on a street corner. He spoke for the first time, “Walk on the left. There are a couple of B&Bs down there.” I was happy because he didn’t drop me off at an expensive hotel we just passed.  

A bed and Breakfast (B&B) is typically British and hardly popular in the lower forty-eight. These are the best options for budget travellers; the filling breakfast lasts until dinner. It was raining heavily. He fished a packet and handed it over, “I stock disposable ponchos. It rains so much this time of the year.” Surprised but politely denied, “I have one, Sir.” He countered, “By the time you take out, your sleeping bag will be wet.” He had a point because my sleeping bag was tied at the top of my pack, and I had no time to talk. The truck was idling at a no-parking curbside. I said, “Thank you so much,” and jumped out of my seat. He said, “Take care; have a nice day,” and drove off.                   

It started to rain harder, so I ducked into a fish bar for shelter and coffee. There, I saw some antique photos of Valdez. One of them was especially interesting. It was about the 1908 auto race team from New York to Paris. In winter, the American team arrived at Valdez to cross the frozen Bering Straight, which proved impossible. Then, they sailed to Japan and went on via Siberia. I recalled a Hollywood movie, ‘The Great Race’ starring Tony Curtis, with a similar plot. I didn’t know it was an actual event. I recalled my college dorm when I daydreamed about the Bering Straight.

After two days of sightseeing, I returned to the dock. The sky was cloudy, and a storm was forecast. Deck camping could be hazardous. My destination was Dutch Harbour, five days away. I had to switch the ship at Kodiak. I met a college kid going to Kodiak Island for a wildlife tour. Kodiak is the home of giant brown bears. The bears stalk in whitewater. When salmon flip to go upstream, they go directly to their jaws. I had a fleeting thought about getting off at Kodiak. But the next boat would come after fifteen days, and the bear tours were expensive. My dwindling purse forced me to think twice about a safari at Kodiak. I said goodbye to the college kid.  

I settled into a corner of the crowded waiting hall at Pier 1. Sleeping bags were spread everywhere, and people were curling up like street dogs in India. They chatted with one another and even exchanged chocolates. The scene reminded me of an Indian railway platform. The vessel was more basic, but I was now experienced. I chose a corner of the forward deck lounge and unrolled my sleeping mat. Then, I headed to the dining hall with my grocery bag to grab some free coffee. This ship likely had an official name, but everyone called it ‘Tusty’ or ‘Trusty Tusty.’

Sealife was abundant and free to watch from the vessel. I put on the flimsy poncho I had received from the kind driver and ventured to the lower deck. I had to brave the misty gusts for about half an hour to spot the whale flips. The eagles were soaring high in the sky, while occasional puffins were gliding on the waves. By the time the voyage started to bore us, we had reached the Dutch harbour.         

The name Unalaska appeared funny but was perfectly meaningful. Alaska means ‘the great land’, and Unalaska means ‘near the great land’ in Aleut. The word Aleuit even needs to be corrected. The Russians invented the term. They called themselves Unangan. The locals spoke only American, and the native tongue almost died. Dutch Harbour drew crowds from the lower forty-eight for seasonal jobs in the fishing industry. Dutch Harbour had no connection to the Dutch except for a Dutch ship anchored there. It had more Russian culture than American culture.  

The Russian Orthodox Cathedral of Holy Ascension, complete with onion domes, was small, resembling a parish church in New England. In the morning, there was an open house. Members were pleased to give a tour. Mr Butin, a retired federal employee and now a volunteer, described its history. They served blueberry muffins and pies as freebies.  

Mr Butin talked about wild berries, “Our members picked up the berries that you had for breakfast. Wild berry picking is tiring but fun. Bears are a risk elsewhere in Alaska. Bears love berries. They had to gain enough fat before sleeping in the winter. A startled bear could become aggressive. Large Kodiak bears, thankfully, didn’t immigrate down to Unalaska. We are grateful for it.”  Butin was incredibly kind to me. He had met Indians before. But he never saw a solo Indian backpacker visiting his church. We talked about my hitchhiking experience for a while. He appeared to be very interested.      

After a satisfying breakfast, I updated my diaries in the garden. I was contemplating my next destination. I knew I had to return to Trusty soon. I didn’t feel like doing it. St Innocent, the patron saint of the Cathedral, must have heard me. He sent silver-haired Butin walking towards me with a few young fellows. I stood up. Mr Butin introduced them. We shook hands. One of the striking things was that they all carried a Nikon F2. It was one of the most expensive cameras on the market. On a closer look, they mainly wore Timberland moccasins and Lacoste jackets. I also noticed an Omega Sea Master wristwatch. They were rich kids wearing expensive brands. The Nikon F2 gave me a hint. It had a 1/2000th second shutter speed, whereas other brands could match up to only 1/1000th. They must be wildlife photographers who need high-speed shutters to catch the action.              

In the guise of Butin, St Innocent broke the incredible news, “They are from Los Angeles and going to Pribilof tomorrow.” It is hardly a speck on the map away from the Aleutian archipelago. It has the largest colony of sea mammals in the world. I was still blank. A kid explained, “The tour operator still had two seats in the plane. Mr Butin shall recommend you for a large discount.” My pulse started racing. Butin hurried, “I am going to call Madsen.”  It was actually the airport. I murmured, “Amen, Your grace, St Innocent.“    

The tour was St Innocent’s gift at a price I could afford. Rich kids from LA didn’t make me feel like a pauper. I spent two days in tents in St Paul’s, population 84. I flew back to Fairbanks on a regular flight. So much so was from Unalaska to Alaska.          

Everything was expensive in Fairbanks except the midnight sun in mid-July. By Fairbanks standards, I ended up in a cheap hostel near the university. During its heyday, the crude pipeline workers leased the place. The work had shifted to Valdez. After the construction boom, poor backpackers became their patrons. The shared kitchen was the gossiping corner. I noticed Yura, an Inupiat girl, as the centre of attraction. She was a student and the evening manager.       

She shared her travel experiences in the lower forty-eight: “When people find me, an Eskimo,” she counted, “The first question was: Do you live in Igloos? The second was: Do you eat raw meat? And the third was: Do you leave your aged parents to die in the cold? Finally, they ask: Do you share wives with the guest? She said with a dry smile, “I say yes! We did all of them a century ago. They become happy with my admissions.”   

I mentioned, “Wives’ offering is a kind of gene pooling in small tribes and not uncommon elsewhere.” She quipped, “I heard about it.” Then, she continued bitterly, “The problem is that there are no Eskimos in Alaska. We have Unangans, Inupiat, Tlingit and others. In the 1971 Alaska Act, seventeen groups were recognised. Unfortunately, the lower forty-eighths still think they own Alaska with polar bears and Eskimos who live in Igloos.”      

I later cornered her at the desk. I reasoned that she would be helpful, and I was right. I informed her about my balance fund and asked, “Can I visit Nome and Point Barrow with this?” She shook her head, “Forget Point Barrow at such a kitty. It’s expensive, but try Nome. I think you can manage. Let me try!”

She called a number in Nome. The family rents a room during the rush for the mushing tournament, which means dog sledging. At the time, the room was booked by birders. Yura pleaded, “He is a backpacker from India. He can’t afford a hotel.” Her friend probably relented.  

She talked for a few more minutes and smiled, “Alasie was once my tour mate. She and her husband agreed to accommodate your stay at my request. She won’t charge you much, but you have to sleep on a drawing-room couch and could use the attached powder room. There would be no bath in Nome. You can have breakfast with the birders at her kitchen.” A guest was present when we were talking. He winked, “Do ask her husband to borrow the wife.” I smiled, “Maybe I will try.”

Yura asked, “Do you know the punishment for seduction?” The guest said, “Maybe they will throw you before a hungry Nanook.” It meant a polar bear. Yura nodded in disagreement, “Inupiats are kind people, and bear attacks are gory.” She continued, “Sex without hubby’s consent would be treated as rape. Inupiats will fix a sledge to load food and banish you from the settlement. If you can survive the thousand-mile trek to Anchorage, you are free. Otherwise, freeze to death.” A few more guests were surrounding us. I mischievously asked, “If I seek the man’s permission? I might say, Hey Mike could you please send Alasie in my bed after dinner.” Yura responded gravely, “I was talking about olden days. Now, the rules have changed a bit. If you merely ask for permission, they will give you a snowmobile and kick you out of town. Do you know it’s an indigenous people’s city council? Even the Supreme court won’t interfere.” It took a long second to realise that she was pulling my legs. Everybody was roaring with laughter.

Two days later, I flew to Nome. Alasie and Mike had already rented the extra room to a birder couple. Mike shook hands and apologised, but they could only offer me a couch in a nook. There were large glass windows, and it would surely be cold at night. Alasie thought about it and brought a heavy sleeping bag. I was more than happy and gave them a big thank you. Large windows were a help. Before dawn, the sky became dark. I was awake to see the northern lights again, this time in a mesmerising purple colour.    

Naming Nome has a conflicting origin story. The most common explanation is that a British Royal officer scribbled ‘name’ on a survey sheet to remind himself of the place name. A draftsman misread the word ‘Nome‘ from the scribble to incorporate it into the map in about 1853. Scandinavians argued that it is an Anglo-Saxon habit of self-importance. Nordic Americans first came to the area for gold and created the gold rush, which Chaplin made world famous. A founding member, Lindeberg, named the city Nome, recalling a Norwegian city of the same name. The town of Nome in Norway does exist even today. Inupiats claim these are also the white men’s lens. The word ‘Naami’, meaning ‘Where at’, exists in their language from which the word ‘Nome‘ was derived.     

I learnt about Nome from Balto, a dog statue in Central Park, New York City. It’s a story of human suffering and heroic Balto. A diphtheria outbreak occurred in Nome in the winter of 1925. Due to darkness and blizzards, the air service was suspended. A dog sledge was arranged. Balto, the lead dog, somehow felt its importance. His endurance and intelligence made the mission successful, and the antitoxin reached Nome in time.             

Nomians did not forget Balto. In the last couple of years, they have started a race in memory of the event. Mike was one of the organising volunteers. He remains swamped with work when the race is on. The couple started to rent out their rooms in season to support the rush during the race. He predicted that the race would flourish in the future. He was definitely right. It’s now a major multinational event that people from many countries attend. Sixteen dogs in each sledge start the thousand-mile-long run through the rugged snow-covered wilderness. They take about ten days to reach Nome. It is one of the most demanding sports in the world.       

I joined a jeep tour to see the wildlife in the Bering Sea. I saw puffins, seals and walrus. But I was excited to see the Siberian coastline on the other side. I described it vividly to the birder couple at the breakfast table the next day. The lady said, “Is it?” They were sipping coffee with smiling faces, but remained quiet. Something was not right, I felt. Alasie came to the rescue, “Fata Morgana”, she announced from the kitchen table. I was still blank; I had never heard the term before. The couple took pity and explained in detail.   

At its narrowest point, near a settlement called Wales, the Bering Strait is over forty miles wide and stretches beyond the horizon at eye level. From Nome, the width of the Straight is over two hundred miles. They produced the map at the back of their guidebook. The gentleman said, “What you saw was a Fata Morgana.”  Fata Morgana is an Italian term for Fairy Morgana, a legendary fairy. It is also a term for a cold-weather mirage. An Italian priest thought a mirage was a fairy castle floating on the sea and termed it accordingly. What I saw in the distance was, in reality, a mirage of the coastline where I stood. No one on the day tour was concerned about it. The image was so realistic that I thought I saw the Russian coastlines.        

Alasie returned to the table with freshly baked muffins and talked about her visit to the little Diamede island ten years earlier. There are twin islands in the middle of the Bering Strait that Americans call Big and Little Diomede because they were discovered on the feast day of St Diomede. Russians called these Gvozdev Islands in memory of a geographer. The border and the international date line pass between the two islands. They are about two miles apart but have different dates. Some smart kids call the islands both today and tomorrow. The Russians relocated their populations, but about a hundred American Inuits lived in Little Diomedea when Alaska was transferred. Much later, in 1987, the noted long-distance swimmer Lynne Cox swam from one Island to the other, lifting the ice curtain of the Cold War. President Regan and Gorbachev congratulated her for swimming in sub-freezing water.

Alasie took all three of us to the backcountry in her four-wheeler for a paid day trip and a traditional Inupiat dinner in the evening. For Yura’s reference, I believe she charged me less. I was the first Indian, she said, to board in her home. First, we went to a catering kitchen that specialises in local food. For snacks, we procured Inuit ice cream, chocolate bars, chewing gum, and other similar items.

These are not everyday European foods, but rather rough translations. The Inuit term for so-called ice cream is Aqutuk. Its base is fat from animals like seals, whales, moose, etc. They whip it hard to a creamy mass and add crushed berries to sweeten it.

Pemmican resembles nutty chocolate bars, but it is actually made from dried meat and fat. An American term for dried meat is jerky. Elk, or moose jerky, is ground into granules. Melted seal fats are poured. Crushed berries are added and laid in small brisket forms. Briskets are stored outside. When the fat is hardened, it resembles a Cadbury Crunchie bar, but it doesn’t necessarily taste like one. It lasts long and is a storehouse of calories. Inuit hunters and gold prospectors survived on this savoury.

Inuit chewing gum is called muktuk. It reminded me of Chhurpi from Tibet. Bhutias make brick-hard cheese, chhurpi, from yak milk, to suck like lozenges. Muktuk is made of raw whale skin dried in the sun. Surprisingly, whale skin is a good source of vitamin C and protects from scurvy. In treeless tundra, citrus fruit does not grow. Inuits consume muktuk for vitamin C. When chewed raw, the blubber becomes oily and is refreshing, like chewing gum.

After the kitchen tour, Alasie showed us the taverns. Drinking in Nome has been legendary since the Gold Rush. The gunfight at the OK Corral in Arizona is one of the most famous in the American West. Three sequels of Hollywood blockbusters made it even more unforgettable. One of the shooters, Wyatt Earp, then moved to Nome to run a tavern. Alasie told us the story and showed us the remains. She said, “Mike will prepare an Alaska-style cocktail tonight.”

Then she drove away from the town. She was driving on the Teller Highway, a gravel road through treeless tundra. Our destination was Teller, a subsistence fishing community on the Bering Strait. There were musk oxen around, lazily standing on the roadside. Alasie explained that it was the mating season. Musk oxen mothers can become very aggressive in protecting their babies. Once, a cow charged a standing car to turn it over. It is not advisable to go too close to them. She also said musk oxen’s wool is one of the best in the world. The lady birder commented that these are very expensive.

We reached the Teller coast. They were drying large salmon pieces. Remains of whale bones were around. The birders were busy taking photos. I just sat at the shore among whale bones, soaking in the beauty of the seashore. Alasie sat beside me and asked, “Are you not interested in photography?” I replied, “Oh! I am, but in a location I am familiar with. I would find better photographs of Teller in National Geographic, but I won’t find you. I am interested in people.” She remained silent and then mused, “Ya! I see your point.” Then she asked questions about me, my family, and other things. This is the same world over. Women are naturally interested in families.

Since the weather was good, she drove us to Port Clarance, a strategic deep-water port, on an enchanting scenic drive. A narrow land bridge passed through the Bering Sea. We saw walruses jumping back into the ocean at the sound of our car. No one was around for miles, but it was still America. A tall radio mast was never out of sight.

We returned late, but the sky was as bright as in the afternoon. Mike has already returned from work. He announced, “Anyone care for a stiff drink?” The birder couple said, “Sure,” in unison. This was not a friend’s house but a hotel where services had to be paid for. Despite my low budget, I could afford it myself. But Alasie whispered in a muffled voice, ” Don’t worry. It’s on the house for you.” I walked up to help Mike, who didn’t need it anyway. He opened his well-stocked bar cabinet. He set up five tall glasses on a tray. I reasoned that it would fetch an enormous bill. He took out a Kahlua bottle from the cabinet. It’s a strong coffee liqueur made of rum and coffee. He expertly poured about one-third of each glass. He did not measure or hesitate, but all the glasses’ quantities were identical. He then produced another famous brand, Baileys Irish Cream, which is made of cream, cocoa, and whiskey. He was obviously proficient in mixology. He held a bar spoon upside down at the level of the Kahlua inside the glass and slowly poured Baileys on the spoon for another one-third. The density of cream-coloured Baileys must be less than that of coffee-coloured Kahlua. A dark and white band of spirits were created. He filled the remaining glass similarly with whiskey, an amber-coloured liquid, making three decks in the glasses.

Finally, he poured some Bacardi rum on top, and the magic happened. Mike set long metal straws in the glasses, flamed the rum in the top layer with a gas lighter, and immediately turned off the kitchen light. All were startled, and he placed the tray with a flourish on the table and said, “Here you go; enjoy the best cocktail in Nome. They call it B52.”

I learnt more about the mix much later. The B52 mix was inspired by the B52 rock band. In B52, the top layer should be orange-flavoured Grand Mariner or Cointreau liqueur. Whiskey was never added. In Alaska, they often added whiskey and recently gave it a funny name. They started calling it a Duck Fart. I am sure Mike didn’t know about such a yucky name when he mixed it for us.

After delivering the tray, Mike said, “Cheers.” One of the guests exclaimed in admiration, “Ah! A flaming, layered cocktail. Well done, Mike.”  Everyone clicked their glasses on the tray. He carefully removed the glass, placed it next to him, and started sipping from the metal straw. The drink was still on fire. I understood why he gave metal straws. The rest of us followed suit. The fire burnt out soon, leaving a smoky Bacardy aroma. The spirit in one of the glasses was still burning. Mike put his palm on it to put out the flame. I observed how the people were drinking. Drinkers often swirl their whiskey or wine to release fresh aroma before each sip.

In this table, they only sipped with straws, presumably to keep the layers intact. Mike was drinking from the bottom. Alasie lowered the straw on various decks each time to enjoy different flavours. I realised the purpose of making a layered cocktail and why tall straws were given. My mind was racing for another issue. Americans often make large portions to skip the second offerings. The guests decide for themselves. Unlike in my hometown in India, leaving large leftovers is the norm. Mike likely made it big for this.

The cocktail was potent and magnum-sized, at least for me. Each ingredient contained more than twenty per cent alcohol, and the shot sizes were about 60 ml each. I would be on the floor after an intake with such a strong spirit. I could leave a leftover in American style. However, Alasie had already whispered it was a freebie for me. I could have, but I did not refuse the drink. I must finish the drink for the courtesy.

Everyone loosened up and entered into a lively discussion. In the meantime, Mike turned on the light and served a dinner of seal meat soup, dried whale meat, and fresh salmon stakes with sea kelp preserves. Alasie served aqutuk and pemmican for dessert. We all enjoyed the evening after a tiring day. I was deliberately slow and careful, but finally finished the drink before we left the dinner table.

I was surely tipsy when I returned to the sofa in the nook. I tried to think if I had staggered steps by then. I stared through the window for some time to enjoy the barren landscape and settle myself. I remember my flight the following day. I drank some water for fear of a hangover in the morning. I turned off the table lamp, put on shorts and hit the bed.

I saw her shadow when I climbed into the sleeping bag. The nook didn’t have a door to knock on, so she softly said, “Hey! Jimmy.” I said, “Yes, please.” She moved in and sat at the edge of my sleeping bag, the only place to sit in the nook. She changed to night pyjamas but a parka on top. In a drunken state, I slipped into a fantasy. I excitedly asked myself. Did I tell Mike to get her favour in the bed? Did he send her in true Eskimo tradition? When I was about to ask her, I saw the exercise book and returned to my senses.

I saw the spiral-bound exercise book in the drawing room earlier. It was a comment book where guests wrote long or witty comments. It appeared to be some hobby for her. I had been preparing myself with a small poem in anticipation since last night, but kept quiet. She said, “I forgot to ask you for a comment.” I am fully awake now. I started writing slowly in the failing light of the day as if I were thinking then. In fact, I had already worked it out in my head when I saw the guest comment book yesterday. I tried to remain steady and scribbled the poem without overwriting. I reread the lines and handed the book back to her.

A solo vagabond from the tropics
     Walked to a home in the Arctic,
She spared him her only nook
     but scarcely anything she took,
The loneliness of a solitary boy
     was crushed to fill up with joy.
His mind is brimming with bliss
     It’s only for your kind care, sis.

She took the book to the table, turned on the lamp, and read the lines. Then, with a dazzling smile, she turned towards me and said, “Jimmy, you said you study engineering. You never told me you are a poet.” I knew I could only write like a third-grader, but I still asked, “How was it?” She exclaimed, “Oh! Great!” She came closer and said thoughtfully, “You know what? Not many people could write a poem so naturally, even without an overwriting. Don’t waste your talent. You should write more.” She patted my shoulder affectionately. She punched lightly on my arm with the end of her fist and said, “Good job, bro.” It was her response to my word, sis. She bid good night and left. But I had to stay awake to see that heavenly glow of the sky before dawn.

I left Nome the following day. Weeks later, I sent a note of thanks on picture postcards from my university town to Alasie and Yura. Alasie will hopefully paste the card into that spiral-bound notebook.