Arctic Daughter
By Jean Aspen; Graphic Arts Books; $17.99
The blurb: Setting off in an overloaded canoe, Jean Aspen and her first husband journeyed down the Yukon River and walked upstream into the remote Brooks Range to build a cabin and live off the land. She was 22, daughter of a famous woman adventurer. He was her childhood sweetheart. Four years later, they emerged from Alaska's wilds. Now in her 60s, Jean Aspen updates her spellbinding tale of adventure in a harsh and beautiful land for a new generation. "Arctic Daughter" is at once an extraordinary journey of self-discovery and a lyrical odyssey. A Reader's Digest book selection, this remarkable tale of survival and courage measures the value of dreams against the unforgiving realities of the natural world.
Excerpt: At 2 a.m., the sun was just coming up as Phil's old pickup truck plowed through the last mudhole and into the tiny settlement of Circle, Alaska. End of the road. Three of us had driven north for 10 days, Phil and I and a friend who had come along to take the truck back to Tucson. Gradually, we had left darkness behind as we neared the Arctic Circle, an imaginary line around the earth where the sun doesn't set for one day each summer and fails to rise one day each winter. Now at last, our rutted dirt track simply vanished into the biggest piece of river I had ever seen: the mighty, muddy Yukon. Like a moving lake, it reflected the early morning sun into our tired eyes.
Phil switched off the truck's engine and stretched. Silence rushed into the cab. We sat a moment, numb from the hours of jostling. Then I flipped up the door handle, enveloping us in the waiting mosquitoes. Within minutes we had our tents up beside the truck.
By 6 a.m. the sweltering heat of an early June day on the Yukon Flats drove us from sleep. We were camped on a sloping, grassy bank facing miles of open water and pale blue sky. The land spread flat and lush beneath the endless summer sun. Behind us, a few tattered buildings were hidden from view in the dark spruce trees. Steam rising from the damp earth and foliage made the air heavy and hard to breath. Even the mosquitoes were hiding in the shade.
Feeling tired and cranky, I wandered down to the river and splashed muddy water over my face, drying it with the tail of my blue cotton work shirt. Then I brushed out my long hair, twisted it into a knot, and clipped it up with a large barrette.
Phil was already unloading our canoe and half a ton of equipment from the truck when I joined him. He looked up at my approach and paused to fold a red bandanna, slipping it over his chestnut hair as a sweatband. He was handsome in his way: heavy bones framing wide green eyes, square jaw beginning to disappear under a dark beard. The mouth was small for his face, overshadowed by a craggy nose — victim of high school sports. Phil was of average height. with a body well built and graceful, though his personal inclination was to bull his way through rather than use finesse. Perhaps his most striking feature was his eyebrows (or rather, eyebrow) for it spanned both eyes in a single, dramatic sweep.
It was hard for me to see his features objectively. Through the years of friendship, they had become as familiar as my own. We had been close since high school, hiking, rock climbing, dating. We met in the Southern Arizona Rescue Association when I was 16. Our friends had referred to us as "Phil-and-Jeanie" ever since, as if we had somehow joined to form a third organism. And to me, in a way, we had. I wanted it to be that way. He had given me an engagement ring just before we started our journey, and the little diamond winked at me as I began unloading duffel.
We worked quietly together unpacking mounds of gear and piling it on the grass. The canoe and supplies that had crowded the front room of the little house we rented together that last semester in school now seemed to shrink before miles of open water.
Northern Verses: Poems of Alaska and the Yukon
By Dennis L. Lattery; Publication Consultants; $9.95
The blurb: Dennis Lattery arrived as an 8-year-old, fresh off the boat, in Juneau during April 1949. Born in Vancouver, B.C., with the exception of two years U.S. military service in the Lower 48, he has lived continuously in Alaska since. His writing career began in 1976 with an article published in "Selected Alaska Hunting & Fishing Tales" by Alaska Magazine. He has also produced a book about growing up and living in the 49th state.
The idea for "Northern Verses" evolved out of what Dennis saw as a need for a new Christmas poem for children. His poem was titled "The Christmas Girl." Efforts to sell the idea for a children's book fell on deaf ears in the publishing world, but other work gradually spun off its writing. He found he liked writing rhyming prose, especially poems about the north country.
Excerpt: From Cabbage in the Stew:
We grow a few tomatoes in the out of doors up here.
Okra plants are not local produce, that is true.
Cantaloupes would hardly find the time for bearing
And peaches are a fruit that never grew.
#
Our cucumbers are a veggie that is crisp and tasty
If grown with care and lots of greenhouse gear,
With peppers coaxed to thrive along beside them
In a heated structure half their growing year.
#
The eggplant is fruit that is unheard of
Within the confines of our northern clime
And the artichoke's a plant that seldom makes it
In view of such a long maturing time.
#
Our crops are several types of potato,
Carrots, turnips, peas and lots of lettuce too.
They thrive like any type of crispy radish
Before our little growing season's through.