On Call in the Arctic

by Thomas J. Sims

Anxiety trickled from my armpits

Moving to Alaska was not for the faint of heart. Doing it with a term-pregnant wife the size of a house (her

her words, not mine), a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter who was the poster child for the “terrible twos,” a mother-in-law, a pile of luggage large enough to fill a garage, and

We checked into our flight with eight huge suitcases and our beagle, that was loaded

into a crate for placement into heated cargo. That done, we took seats in the Western Airlines boarding area surrounded by a fort of purses, jackets, children’s toys, and carry-ons. Grama sat quietly holding the small sack-covered birdcage on her lap and the kennel with the cat at her side. I kept an eye out for anyone paying attention to us, and when I found it safe, discreetly unzipped the duffle bag, and gave five or six good puffs into the portable water tank. So far, so good.

Aside from falling in love, I can’t admit to really enjoying my college experience.

The only way I was going to successfully adapt to this new life was to adjust my attitude, my thinking, and my actions rather than the other way around.

Learning to trust my intuition and following my instincts was the lesson of that night at San Joaquin General. It would be a truth that would guide me through the trials and heartache I would face in Nome in the coming years, and through the challenges I would face during the remainder of my life.

“It’s called an umiak,” Sam said when I asked him about his odd-looking boat. “It’s made of reindeer skin, dried many months then stretched over wood frame. Many Eskimo men have one. We use for fishing and hunting seals and walrus. Sometimes whales.”