Field Books

Sheila Nickenson presents Alaska as a vast unforgiving terra incognita where death awaits the missing. Her essays on the lost--and sometimes found--of Alaska demonstrate emphatically it's not a place to be stranded in. For example, the immense interior glaciers offer no quarter. Even with today's sophisticated technology, the lost remain lost. Their bodies are not found; their fates are known to God. Most of the modern day missing are victims of plane crashes. (There are parts of our 49th state that are only accessible by airplane. Juneau, where the author resides, is one example.)

In earlier times, the late 1700s to the earlier part of the 20th century, the missing were members of expeditions and the Navy. Many of the dead sailors were "harvested" by the Cold Reaper in the flower of their youth.

Interspersed among the essays for the dead are meditations on: Sheila's life in Juneau, her publishing experience as a poet, her New England childhood, the "politics" of teaching Alaskan prisoners, the joys and insights of educating children about poetry, being a mother and wife, the flowers of Alaska--what flourishes and what perishes--and her personal ordeal about a missing friend

As someone who once lived in Alaska and liked good books, I could never understand why our state didn't produce more of them. Apart from Robert Service and a few essayists (Joe McGinnis, John McPhee), few talented writers have made Alaska their subject, and even fewer have handled it successfully. It is a melancholy commentary on Alaska that the most faithful representation of the state in the Lower 48 was the television show Northern Exposure.

Although the state has many dedicated writers, few have written material that was regarded as exceptional. Although many luminaries have visited, few were impressed with the home team. I found this particularly frustrating because other small, cold, places - Iceland or Denmark, for example - had developed rich and distinct literary traditions.

Doubly frustrating because the chance was there. You can't do regular literature in Alaska. Something about the place resists anything conventional. The problems an author might write about in say, Spokane, seem out of place or mis-scaled when set in Alaska. (This intractability extends far beyond literature - experienced mountain climbers from elsewhere are routinely killed in Alaska, talented pilots from the Lower 48 crash there, perfectly good ships sink off its shores.)

But this problem is also an opportunity, for the artist willing to go for broke. To succeed, she would have to invent new tools and take a radically different approach from the authors of the Lower 48. To misuse an analogy from Updike, the successful Alaskan author can't hope to hug the shore - she must build her own boat, and head straight out to the sea, with all the risks and rewards that entails.

Sheila Nickerson, a Juneau resident who was the state's poet laureate from 1977 to 1981, has taken up the challenge. The book is a history and a memoir. The history she reports is full of dangerous projects and unexplained disappearances. She dedicates long passages to great vanishings in the far north, from the! Franklin Expedition of the 19th century to congressmen Nick Begich and Hale Boggs in the early 1970s. But mostly Nickerson reports smaller vanishings: An old man gets off a ferry in Juneau and is never heard from again. A young man walks up a heavily-travelled trail and vanishes. A colleague disappears on a flight:

"Kent Roth, a fishery biologist with the Alaska Department of Fish and Game, has gone down with two brothers and two friends on a flight from Yakutat to Anchorage. It is an immense area, one that has swallowed people from the earliest times of its recorded history."

Throughout the book Nickerson intersperses her own story with this disappearance and the ensuing search. She also reports on the stacatto interruption of accidental death that is the hallmark of day-to-day life in Alaska:

"Flipping through search-and-rescue news releases at the Coast Guard headquarters at the federal building in Juneau, I quickly find a terrible sameness to the stories. The reports usualy continue from three to five days. If the case is large, or unusual, reports continue for a week or even two weeks. Then, for the most part, there is blankness."

Observing that the Alaskan Shamen were wiped out by protestant missionaries, she rushes to fill the void with any spiritual tool that can find purchase - the tarot, feng shui, dreamwork, bird messengers, ghost stories from her childhood. She is impatient with the stern, inscrutable Protestant God (perhaps her distant and angry father, who ultimately disinherited her, has something to do with this). Ironically, this is one place where that stern patriarch seems plausible. Such a God is a mere curiosity in a literary, affluent place like New York, Paris, or Peking. But He fits well where nature kills suddenly, unexpectedly, and arbitrarily. Nickerson never goes there - if that's the deal, she doesn't want it.

Only late in the book does she hint that she sees the awful possibility that there is no order, spiritual or otherwise, to it all:

"! ;There is a framed original chart from the Cook expedition to Alaska in 1778 - Cook's last before he turned south to Hawaii and death at the hand of native Hawaiians. The chart, in pencil, was executed either by Cook or by Master William Bligh... It is a working chart of Unalaska Island, out in the Aleutians, made during the summer as Cook and his men headed north to Icy Cape, at the edge of the Frozen Sea. There, just off the coast of the island, in a faint but elegant hand, this notation:

'All this 30' west of the truth' "

But even when her spiritual guides fail her (perhaps I should write 'especially'), the book marches powerfully on, because it is not driven by a spiritual force, but by Nickerson's relentless intellectual engagement. She becomes discouraged, but she never gives up. When one line of attack breaks down, she shifts to another.

It would be unfair to try to say this book has succeeded or failed. As with most Alaskan enterprises, success is a relative thing. A successful Alaskan expedition is one in which no one gets killed. Nickerson is generous with partial credit to explorers who got home with at least some of their shipmates. She has succeeded well on those terms - she's built her boat, gone to sea, and come back.

She succeeds in other ways as well. The whole book is pitched at a high level, far higher than Alaskans expect of local writers. Nickerson's full of talent - she writes in a clear direct voice, and, her protests notwithstanding, she has a pretty good idea of what she's trying to accomplish. This is the kind of a book that might be viewed someday as a cornerstone of Alaskan literature, one of the moments when Alaskans started writing things the rest of the world wanted to read.

Only Nickerson knows if the literary achievement was accompanied by a spiritual one. Alaska is particularly unkind to those who come seeking spiritual development. The sea and wilderness seem to have a special fondness for killing sojourners and utopians. It is a place where what does no! t destroy you tries to cripple you so it can get you next time. As McGinnis discovered, there are a lot of damaged people in those bars and cabins. In this game, holding your own is a big victory.

I think Nickerson held her own.

Sheila Nickerson, Disappearances: A Map, New York: Harcourt Brace, 1996.

"The idea that there is some common cause in the workings of the human and animal mind is often ridiculed and dismissed as anthropomorphism. But, asks William Jordan, what if the intellectual establishment has it backwards? What if, instead of attributing human motives to animals, we paid more attention to the animal motives in humans?" (excerpt from back cover)

There is a fine line between the anthropomorphic and the significance of studying our common inheritance with the rest of the animal kingdom. Jordan succeeds.

He balances the book well, with apt comparisons between the Homo Sapiens and the rest of the animal kingdom, providing insight into my existence and not attempting to foist human attributes back onto the animal world. He has fun with his topic and is playful with the reader, all however without sacrificing the discipline and the clarity which the reader expects from an animal behaviorist. This is one of those rare books which both informs and entertains ... and this mostly because his prose has a velocity which most authors of science cannot seem to maintain.

It was a great book and I am going to recommend it to anyone (and already have =>) who will listen!

DAS

Highly recommended for anyone out there fascinated by fish and the marvellous public aquariums around the world. Enjoy it!

Powell took the first fish he caught as a kid and slept with it under his pillow. He maintained the lobster tank at a fancy Malibu restaurant. When he read Cousteau's first book, _The Silent World_, he knew he had to start diving. As he kept specimens in his home aquarium, he joined the Marine Aquarium Society of Los Angeles. A fellow member told him of a job opening as an aquarist at Marineland of the Pacific; it was just what he wanted to do, and from there he worked at various aquariums, directing the live exhibits at the Monterey Bay Aquarium until retiring four years ago. He now seems to be the most frequently consulted consultant whenever towns or nations want to set up aquariums.

Powell writes with admiration and affection about the creatures he has to capture and then keep in as home-like an environment as possible, including the wonderfully named sarcastic fringehead, the "thumbsplitter" mantis shrimp with its faster-than-the-eye claw, and many more. He tells about the process of capturing samples in many different ways, but diving and capturing fish is the easy part. Transporting them is hard. There are different gadgets and containers that have to be used, including the truck transport named the "Tunabago." It is planning the displays of the fish that obviously has given Powell the most satisfaction in his career. His description, for instance, of the responsibilities of putting up the largest window in the world, a gigantic acrylic pane fifty-five by fifteen feet, thirteen inches thick, and weighing thirty-eight tons, is completely engrossing.

Powell's book, a mixture of autobiography, oceanography, ichthyology, museology, and funny stories, is a delight. In seemingly effortless style, he conveys the excitement even in the minor aspects of his career. He gives a final essay on the importance of aquariums (disdained by Cousteau as "fish prisons") in bringing people closer to nature and in promoting the conservation that could keep the oceans healthy. His book is a worthy summary of a lifetime's effort in that cause.