Hands Part 1

            Occasional fluffy white pillows of cloud punctuated the exotic tropical blue expanse. Here and there bald eagles hung effortlessly in the sky, floating on unseen pillars of rising air and watching with a calculated eye all that entered their domain. But this sky is not some far away tropical island inhabited by bloated sunburned tourists complaining of diarrhea. This is the 49^th state, a jewel that gleams in the northern arctic sun. Alaska, the mere name conjures images in most people’s minds of a vast inhospitable frozen waste, and I wish that image remains long after these words are forgotten. For you see, Alaska is a place of beauty and wonder, a place so magnificent and vast that no description will ever adequately convey how one feels when it is experienced.  From lush forests and cobalt fields of ice, to towering mountains that strain from the sea, from the flat plains of the North Slope Borough to the frozen fog of Attu island, Alaska is a place of insolent acquiescence of humans feeble attempts to conquer it. 

So it was by all accounts a perfect day to be out enjoying the wilderness bequeathed to us through a folly of forward thinking. A day I slept through, readying myself for another twelve hour overnight shift in the emergency room at the small hospital in rural Alaska. Another day my cat spent laying on my head waiting for me to rise and open the door to the porch so he could resume his vigil of bird watching on the roof. Hi roof antics always left me mindful of the Chihuahua swept from the parking lot of a gas station in Haines Junction in the talons of a bald eagle while the owner stood by weeping and inconsolable.

            It was the Fourth of July, a day of national celebration and reflection. A day to spend with family and community observing the joys of freedom brought to us by the sacrifice of so many dedicated Americans. The Fourth of July, a day to express to our children the importance of community values associated with the achievement of liberty. A country where our great national leaders debate important social topics like what the meaning of “is” is. Where the focus of national children’s policy is on “edumacation.”  And, unlike Kalifornia, Alaskans need not fear being sued by the EEOC for having a non-handicapped accessible shower stall on stage at the local strip joint.

            The Rogers family decided it was once again a day to explore the Jim Creek Flats area. Mike, father, age 43, is an environmental engineer and consultant for the petroleum industry. His wife Emily, age 42, Bachelors in History, and Masters in English literature, is wife, mother, and home school instructor for Eric their 13 year old son, and his 13 year old friend Jake, left their home in Eklutna for a day of exploring and discovery.

Mike wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel of the Chevy blazer, relaxing his grip as he realized a slight pang from early arthritis forming in the joints of his fingers. Emily fumbled with her sunglasses trying to disentangle them from the little strap that held the visor mirror to the underside of the visor. She placed the glasses across the bridge of her nose only to find the right lens hopelessly smudged with a perfect print of her right thumb. She produced a tissue from the large black bottomless pit of a purse and proceeded to further smudge the lens with a less than clean tissue. Frustrated by the inability to get her glasses clean, she pulled Mike’s shirttail loose and used it to get the sparkling clear image she had hoped to achieve with the tissue.

Mike flopped his left hand out the window signaling a turn and entered the onramp to Highway 1. As he merged onto the highway heading east he waved to the elderly couple sitting on an old decaying couch facing the highway. The old couple waved back enthusiastically and took a long draft from the beer ever present in their hands. The family passed Radio City, which had been dismantled but for one last dinosaur standing firm against the elements. The old radio towers had been of prime importance during the long Cold War insanity of the previous four decades. Now, like the cold war, the remaining tower stood ugly and alone, begging to be torn down, just as the Berlin wall had been recently demolished. He steered the blazer down Highway 1 for about 10 minutes until he neared the familiar approach to the Old Palmer Highway.

He could have stayed on the nice shiny new freeway and taken the long route across rabbit slough and through Palmer, but Mike preferred the scenic Knik River route.  He firmed his grip on the wheel, slowed the blazer and made a right turn onto the Old Palmer highway. He traveled past the Eklutna Powerhouse and the salmon hatchery, hugging the road as it wound its way along the Knik River and eventually angled north across the Knik River bridge.

He recalled a comment about the slit laden rivers of Alaska made by a friend who worked as a nurse at Elmendorf Air Force Base. A young despondent airman donned his parka during the height of ice break-up and went to the Tanana River. His wife had just left him, and lacking the maturity to overcome the loss, he threw himself into the river. He struggled briefly in the current as the pockets of the parka quickly filled with silt. In moments the garment was soaked and infused with silt and the young airman was on his way to meet his maker. Witnesses said there was no dramatic hand reaching for the skies as the young airman was sucked into the torrent. There was no last bob of the head above the current to torment onlookers standing helpless on the shore. The airman jumped in and sunk to the depths of the river, never to be found, period. Mike didn’t know why this ran through his head this perfect day, but it gave him a brief bout of the shivers as the hair stood to attention on the back of his neck.

Mike passed the turnoff for the racetrack, passed the old gravel pit on the left; he turned right at the signs for the airport. Ignoring the airport signs Mike steered the Chevy Blazer toward a trail that would in due course lead them out onto Jim Creek Flats. An unmarked road, if you could call it that, really nothing more than an unkempt trail, kept that way by local tradition so the residents of Alaska can get a reprieve from the prying eyes of tourists and Chichacos.

            Jim Creek Flats was the Rogers family refuge from the tourists that flood the Mat-Su Valley in the summer. A place difficult for tourists to find and even more difficult to enter if not equipped with a four wheel drive or quad runner. From the flats, and with a quad runner, you may travel to Jim Lake or hike up into Swan Lake. Further up this vast expanse of antediluvian plain you arrive at the Finger Lakes area. Jim Creek flats can best be described as a broad band of silt, dissected by creeks running roughly north to south. On the north side of the flats is a forest of dense birch and pine interspersed with areas of tundra and infested with mosquitoes large enough to suck five liters of blood from a man before he falls to the ground dead.

The creeks that dissect this plain run north to south and cut through the silt and eventually spill into the Knik River, which forms the southern border. Getting to the Finger Lakes area or up towards Wolfe Point requires crossing these various creeks. The depth of the creeks determines how far east you can travel on the flats at any given time during the summer. 

            As usual, Mike traversed Jim Creek and Falls Creek with relative ease. As he proceeded east the creeks began to get deeper and deeper. Mike knew that he would only go across the flats until, when crossing the next creek, he felt the blazer start to float down the creek toward the Knik River. As for the chances of getting washed out into the Knik River when crossing a creek, Mike felt the risk slim, besides the further you traveled the less people you encountered. As if on queue the blazer hit a high spot in the center of the creek, the tires caught purchase in the rocky bottom and the blazer shot from the creek up the opposite bank. Emily, always mindful of the risks of such traverses, gave Mike a look that could not have been mistaken for anything other than; That’s enough “adventure” for today and we are stopping right here!

            Mike reached an ideal stopping point at the next rapidly flowing creek. It was too deep and swift to cross, with Emily in the car, but ready to provide an afternoon of excellent fishing. Erich and Jake ran off into the wilderness to hunt for what only 13 year old boys in the wilderness of Alaska can hunt for.

Mike and Emily broke out the fishing poles and trudged into the forest. They followed the creek about one quarter mile before finding his favorite trout hole. Mike and Emily loved to fish for salmon also, and often caught them until their arms were too tired to pull the next salmon from the river. But today Mike wanted to catch a nice trout or Dolly Varden to barbeque later at the Mat-Su Valley Fourth of July picnic.

            They arrived at a deep quiet pool and settled in for a long quiet afternoon of fishing, aka; doing nothing in particular. No combat fishing for this family. Combat fishing you ask? Yes, combat fishing is for the tourists and beer swilling smokers. You know the type. They stand too close to you in line at the grocery store, spitting on you as their bellicose behavior drowns out the demur clerk asking if you want paper or plastic. You keep moving away, and they keep moving into your personal space until you’re making paper airplanes out of your cash and sailing them to the clerk. You’re not sure if the odor emanating from them is unwashed body, beer, fish slime, or a combination of all three. You just know you’ve lost your appetite and almost your lunch on the conveyer belt at the check out stand.  You also hope the retard has the good senses not to pull out the gun on his hip and wave it enthusiastically under his inebriated friend’s nose while he discusses the finer points of dropping a charging grizzly bear with a 50 caliber hand gun. (It’s at that point that I root for the bear.)

Combat fishing is when there are way too many people standing elbow-to-elbow trying to catch a small number of salmon granted to them from the god-like fishing council. People line up along one bank of a river and repeatedly tangle each others line, hoping to make a salmon pissed enough to snap at a Pixee painted-egg-sack-spoon. And, if they are lucky enough, one of the 3% of the salmon not over-fished or caught by commercial vessels will oblige them and strike at the lure and allow them to achieve fishing nirvana. After the catch one hopes the drunken lout keeps his gun in its holster and pulls the fish ashore to kill it with a club rather than poison it with lead.

            Mike and Emily tried that combat stuff when they first came to Alaska. One episode of watching an intoxicated mental midget, stumbling about cantaloupe sized river rocks, waving a loaded gun and trying to shoot a freshly caught salmon, is enough “fun” for one lifetime.

Mike and Emily preferred the quiet solitude of their current fishing hole. Since finding their special spot 12 years ago only once did they have to move else ware because of another’s presence at the hole. Quiet, solitude, reflection, wilderness, and wildlife, that’s the Alaska Mike and Emily longed to show their bright and clever son. And it seemed to be working as each outing Eric would point out bald eagles, moose, salmon and sand hill cranes with respect and awe. Mike had tried particularly hard to empress upon his son that they lived in a special world inhabited by wonders of nature not visible to those living in the lower 48.

            About 6 PM, after several nice trout were cleaned and placed on Ice, Mike, Emily, Eric, and Jake clamored back into the blazer and started the short drive to Wasilla. Mike turned right onto the Old Palmer Highway and made a mental note to lube the blazers chassis the next day. He’d learned this the hard way after having the rear universal joint on his first blazer disintegrate while driving to work one morning. He and Emily had gone fishing throughout the summer. Each time traversing several creeks and thoroughly washing away any remnants of grease left on the universal joints. When the joint decided it had had enough abuse, it let loose and began to redecorate the underside of the blazer. Being in 4 wheel drive at the time the shaft continued to spin, banging on the underside of the blazer and sounding like a two year old in a kitchen full of metal pans. By the time he was able to stop, the transfer case and drive shaft were in need of replacement. Expensive repairs are almost always a good learning tool.

            Mike drove through Palmer and back out onto Highway 1. He traveled south towards Eklutna and turned right onto Highway 3. He maneuvered the blazer up a small hill as it curved to the right and then angled left as the road straightened. Eric and Jake were busy playing with their gameboys and thinking of the trout dinner to come. Emily was prattling on about something to do with church and mike found himself agreeing out of habit without even knowing what she was talking about.

Emily began to talk about turning the children into smurfs and caught Mike agreeing without commenting. Oops, Mike thought. Time to change the subject. They had arrived at Wasilla Lake and Mike asked Emily where she would like him to park the car? She knew immediately what he was attempting to do, because the parking lot is quite small and it being the Fourth of July, parking was limited.

            Mike squeezed into a spot and Eric and Jake jumped from the blazer and went in search of Jakes parents. Finding Jakes parents down by the lake with barbeque hot and ready, Eric and Jake ran back up to the blazer to let Eric’s parents know the location. Mike and Emily pulled containers from the blazer while Eric and Jake struggled to carry an oversized ice chest down to the lake. After several trips and some good natured races back to the blazer for additional loads, Eric and Jake were ready to eat.

Mike and Jake’s dad Jeff chatted while removing fish from the chest and prepared them for the barbeque. Emily and Jakes mom Deb started unpacking paper plates, salt, pepper and the million little things needed for a picnic. Eric and Jake began a bug spray war which quickly spiraled out of control. They sprayed each other with vast quantities of repellent leading both sets of parents to require them to change cloths and wash in the lake before getting within 50 feet of them.  Deb joked that they didn’t need to use any repellent now, all they had to do was have the boys stand at each end of the campsite and the mosquitoes would fall to the ground dead just from the lingering stench of the battle.

Deb, Mike, Jeff and Emily talked of jobs and bills, politics and religion and how things had changed since they were young. Mike felt cheated about the holiday because it fell on a Saturday, and his company only paid for or gave a holiday for the Fourth if it fell during a weekday. He lamented that the weekend was too short and he would prefer much more time to spend with the boys. For the past year now Eric and Jake were inseparable and alternated spending the weekend at each others house. This arrangement had given both parents time alone, and time together, bringing all six together in a tight friendship who each hoped would continue forever.

            At about 9:30 PM, in broad daylight, Mike and Emily decided to call it a day. Jake and Eric wanted to stay for the fireworks but Mike reminded them they could look across the inlet and see them from their home. Jake and Eric put out the barbeque with copious amounts of water, even getting some of it on the briquettes. Mike and the others began the process of lugging all the picnic gear back to the blazer and stowing it for the short ride home. It was Mike and Emily’s turn to have Jake for the weekend so Deb and Jeff gave Jake a big hug, several I Love You’s, and began packing up their own car. Once again Eric and Jake scrambled into the blazer, fastened their seatbelts and readied themselves for the short ride home. Barely ten minutes down the road both were sound asleep with Eric’s head resting against his best friends left shoulder.

            Along Highway 3 at about mile marker 158.2 the two lane road dips and a long sweeping curve to the left is usually easily negotiated. Mike was tired but handling the road well. He was not a partaker in alcohol of any type on any occasion. As they reached the bottom of the hill he accelerated slightly to bring the blazer up to the speed limit.

I had been at work about three hours at this point and was having a nice Fourth of July. This was the nineteenth Fourth of July holidays in a row that I was working, and at some time in the future I planned to have this holiday off. I had a light patient load in the emergency room and was working with an exceptionally skilled doctor whose personal life read like a page from one of those National Rags you see at the check-out stand. Personal problems aside I loved working with him and appreciated his efforts in educating me to the finer points of diagnosis and treatment of medical illness and trauma. The hospital was having something of a cash problem so we were down to just two nurses for a portion of my shift. This left me the responsibility of being the only nurse on duty between 11 PM and 7 AM.

At approximately 9:53 PM an artillery shell exploded into the blazer carrying Mike, Eric, Jake, and Emily. Well not exactly an artillery shell but it may as well have been. A driver traveling at nearly 100 miles per hour drifted across the median of Highway 3 and impacted the blazer in a crash so violent it pushed the blazer back down the road almost 150 feet. I was told later by the only paramedic on the scene that they could not tell what was Mike and Jake and what was the blazer. Mike and Jake were killed outright. I would say instantly but I am not sure that’s the case.

The patch radio crackled alive about 10:30 PM with the news of the crash. The paramedic told me there were to be three Level 1 trauma patients. Patients involved in an accident are tagged with a “Level” to distinguish to the hospital the level of service and equipment that might need to be readied. Level III patients are walking wounded, sniffles, colds, earaches. Level II patients may have a serious medical condition that needs treatment soon, or something serious may happen. Level 1 patients are involved in accidents or have medical conditions that will result in death if not treated. Level 1 patients by mechanism are people involved in a violent trauma that don’t appear to be hurt, but could have potentially serious internal injuries that could result in death. They may be up and walking around at an accident scene and suddenly collapse and die 20 minutes later. As happened to Sam Kinneson when he was killed by a drunk driver just south of Laughlin Nevada.

Emily, Eric and the driver of the other vehicle were classified as Level 1 patients and were all to be transported to my emergency room. The emergency room consists of a three bay trauma room with suction, oxygen, and monitors for two traumas to run at the same time. There is also three other rooms in the ER making the total number of rooms 6. One of the other rooms also has a monitor, suction, and oxygen but no trauma or code carts. Explanation here