Ninety percent of the folks living in our state are not the interesting characters you would expect to find in such a place. A majority of Alaskans are in REI and Columbia Outlet stores purchasing their way to the look that the lower 48 believes they should have. These people are shallow, boring, and trendy. They are generally from Oregon and Washington. They are most concerned with Permanent Fund Dividends and telling volumes of personal tales based on one hunting trip or a lone 2-week stint on a hard up fishing boat. These grand tales are full of near death encounters, of storm, of the sea, and always containing mention of bear sows. They always include talk of gun caliber, wind speed, number of days between showers, and Gortex. They are an entertaining lot and are best viewed from a distance of at least 3 bar stools.
The second group, the 10 percenters, are the truly interesting ones. They are the Alaskans. They are poorly kept and smell as bad as the Oregon/Washington group. But these Alaskans do not mention showers. If you told them how badly they smelled they would go home. Kick your ass and go home. The Oregon/Washington group will, on mention of their body odor, laugh and launch into a tale of their lone commercial fishing trip. "I remember that day well, we were taking 30 footers over the bow, the winds from the northeast at 40 knots, gusting to 60. It was all I could do to keep the grip on my 30-40 Krag". The volume of these tales is adjusted according to the noise level in the bar. Again, I have found that the distance of 3 bar stools to be adequate.
I have a good friend who is an Alaskan. If asked about Gore-Tex he would think it was an abbreviated question asking him whom he plans to vote for. He has no idea what caliber his rifle is; only that most of the shells rolling around in the billage of his skiff are for his gun. When he gets low he brings one to the sporting goods store and asks for some more, "Like these". My friend's name is Ed. Ed looks like he should. He is over six feet tall and two hundred pounds plus. He has a beard. The mustache and chin portion are always longer than the rest because when he comes to town he trims it back to a goatee. He saw some college kids sporting the look and thought he cleaned up better with a goatee. He never tries to even it out. Ed is a gem.
I first met him playing softball. He is a powerful construction worker exuding the innocence of a grade schooler. He knew only three names of professional baseball players. This is refreshing in tavern league slow pitch softball where nearly everyone else pretends to be someone they are not. Ed could care less. He prefers to win. He enjoyed the company of teammates. But what he really enjoyed was striking a softball very hard with a metal bat. I could have said that he liked hitting dongs, liners, frozen ropes, tracers, or shots but that would not be Ed. He cares little for jargon. He just liked hitting a softball very hard. It made little matter where the ball went or what came of the hit. In fact, if it were not for Ed having teammates in this game I don't think it would have mattered to him at all. He would just stand in the batters box and smile when he made good contact. During any game you can hear people yelling, "Run Ed!" after he hit the ball. We must think that yelling makes the batter faster somehow. There were many times over the years where we yelled this to Ed. It was not to get him to run faster you see, it was to get him to run at all. He loved to strike a softball hard with a metal bat. The running and the like were to appease his teammates.
Ed is larger than life. He has many friends. I remember one Sunday afternoon we were warming up before a softball game. Someone asked where Well Fed Ed was. Another teammate who knew Ed well said that he had passed Ed's skiff out by the cape earlier in the day. Half of us grinned as we saw an Ed story coming. "Was he fishing?", came an oafish question from the token Oregon/Washington fella. "Nope, he was nowhere to be seen….Eddie must be snorkeling for halibut again", was the informed reply. No matter how many of these little gag stories you heard, you were always glad Ed was not there to hear them. Not that any of us were scared to tell them in front of him, it was out of fear that he would find one of them interesting enough to try.
Ed had a girl in town. Ed's girl had a brother. Ed's girl's brother was half owner of the outboard on his skiff. The outboard would disappear off his skiff within minutes of an argument with his girlfriend. I no longer believe that honesty and love are the strongest of bonds that keep people together. You have not seen commitment until you have been around Ed on a clear calm Saturday after he has had it out with his girlfriend at the bar the night before. It was tough to fight a grin when Ed would say, "I have to get her back". He would never say who 'her' was. He never had to. He missed his outboard.
I used to hunt with Ed quite a bit. He was a joy to hunt with. For years there was an event that happened every trip that fascinated me. Ed was not the best-kept man in town. He is, after all, an Alaskan. He would show up at the boat launch with sporting a new flannel shirt. Each one had the fold marks creased on them from where they were folded neatly in the store package and several had inspection stickers and pins. A few times I would comment to Ed that I feel underdressed for the hunt. For a couple of years, this was the extent of my observations. Then I remembered pulling out the boat following a trip and saw that his flannel was in tatters. He did not mention anything of a fall. He said nothing of a tangle in devil's club. Ed laughed it off.
A couple of years later we were hunting in John the Baptist Bay. Ed, again, was sporting a new flannel. In the early afternoon of the first day we met back at the beach for a chat and lunch. We were drenched. Ed had a pocket torn from his shirt. We finished lunch and planned to meet in a muskeg above the bay. Later that afternoon we met at the top. Small talk did not lead to an explanation of a second missing pocket on his flannel. We worked our way back to the boat and made ready for supper.
Camp supper with Ed is a scorched form of beef swimming in a can of whatever soup was nearest the front of his cupboard when he packed. We ate and traded pulls from a bottle. We planned the hunting route for the next morning and turned in. Ed was always the first up. He woke me as he was stumbling back into camp. Nature had called early that morning for Ed. As he was priming the stove I noticed something. A huge jagged notch was missing from what used to be the tail of his flannel. Wow. Ed uses pieces of brand new flannels for toilet paper. Several years and multiple hunting trips later I was beginning to get to know Well Fed Ed. Alder leaves and beard moss are not as attractive as a handy flannel pocket for toilet paper.
My friend Ed is a wonderful person. If you find yourself in an Alaskan town that is not Anchorage you would be wise to seek out a man such as Ed. He is a skilled tradesman, a fine outdoorsman, a good friend, and a one dimensional softball player. I would say that Ed is one of a kind but I have run with too many Alaskan Well Fed Eds to make that a true statement. They are an odd lot. Look for them at least three bar stools from the Oregon oaf wearing the Columbia/REI gear weaving tales of ground swell and williwalls. They are the ones standing in the batter's box watching for far too long the ball that they just belted. They have new flannels at the boat launch. They love their women and their outboards. Please do not ask them to decide between the two during the king run or a clear calm morn after a fresh snowfall during deer season.