Home Personal Psychology Psychobiographies One Way Fare from Gold Run

One Way Fare from Gold Run

12 min read
0
0
34
I was sprawled in a back booth in the North Star Café in Nome, Alaska, early one Saturday morning, drinking coffee and eating my habitual sweet roll, when Bill Munz stomped in from the February snow. He looked around, saw me, and headed my way. I thought this somewhat unusual, as he normally sat alone at the counter by the front window. When he stopped and sat down opposite me, though, my puzzlement turned into downright surprise.
Bill was a bush pilot who owned and operated one of Nome’s several small charter airlines. He possessed the typical outlook of his German background: taciturn, methodical, efficient, good at what he did – and very private. Bill didn’t socialize or belong to any fraternal organization, and he didn’t shmooze with the bar crowd. He was polite in a somewhat reserved way, and he hardly spoke an unnecessary word except where business was involved.
He smiled – a wry, half-twist of his mouth, half-hidden under a graying mustache, and asked, “Got any plans this morning?”
“Uh – no…”
“Wanna take a spin up to Gold Run? Gotta pick up something.”
“Uh – sure.”
“C’mon.” He stood and quickly headed out the door. I paid my bill and hurried after, climbing into his Jeep station wagon.
The story unfolded on the way to the airstrip. An old hermit lived in solitude in Gold Run, a near-abandoned collection of gold rush and World War II era buildings on a creek of the same name around 40 miles northwest of Nome. Some weeks earlier a young Eskimo from nearby Teller, inspired by a combination of too much drink and not enough sense, had set fire one night to the old man’s cabin. The hermit was forced out into the sub-zero temperature, taking refuge in an unheated shack where he froze to death. The law had finally caught up with the Eskimo, and now it was Bill’s job to transport the old man to Nome. He needed help.
Pages 1 2 3
Load More Related Articles
Load More By Arthur Sandstrom
Load More In Psychobiographies

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Check Also

Brief Interlude at the Bookstore or Apropos of Nothing Much

Back to the coffee bar where I was behind only one adult who didn’t know what she wanted b…