Where the soul is most contented

In the late summer swelter of south Dallas, 1960, I sat in the lap of my uncle Phil and wondered about the color of his chest hairs. He was shirtless and that bright red hair was fascinating to his 6 year old niece. He was working at his "radio" bench and trying to explain to me how far away Alaska was. He indulged my demands for his attention because he knew he would not see me again for, perhaps several years. As he tested the knobs on his project the refrain of a rising hit song came through the speaker, "...North to Alaska, go north the rush is on...." Uncle Phil sang along with the chorus, he knew the whole song by heart.

From the kitchen in the rear of the duplex, we could here my grandmother slamming cook pots around the stove top. She was again expressing her disapproval of her oldest son's decision to move to Alaska. That damned song was just aggravating to her. Why did that have to be such a popular tune right now? She heard it everywhere and it was a constant, nagging reminder that she was loosing her son.

Phil had just recently been discharged from the Air Force. He was back at Gramma and Grandpaw's house for a few weeks to gather his hunting and fishing gear, visit family, see friends and prepare to move. His decision had not gone over well with the family and we had hastened up the road from Austin for a weekend visit before he left. Why Alaska, for crying out loud? Nothing anyone said could change his mind, because Alaska had claimed his heart. His last tour of duty was in 1959-1960 at Elmendorf AFB, where the wilderness pressed against the chain link perimeter. For this backwoods Arkansas boy, the seduction of this land was complete.

He could truly breath no where else. By the time Johnny Horton's anthem went to number one on the charts, Uncle Phil was back in Anchorage getting settled. He lived the next six years there, working, hunting, fishing, even experiencing the terror of the Good Friday earthquake, happier than he believed possible. Back in Texas we got letters, cards, and holiday packages from that remote, exotic land. One Christmas I got a little bracelet made of walrus ivory tiles. Three of the tiles had sketches of Eskimo children playing and I still have that cherished bracelet. Clearly, this was heaven on earth for Phil Manley from Nashville township, Ark.

In mid August of 1966 my family was stunned by his accidental drowning near Chickaloon. He and a buddy were deep in the bush hunting. They had packed in with a horse to help carry out their kill. While leading the horse across a swift running river he lost his footing and was swept away. The heavy pack he was carrying pulled him down, his friend couldn't see him or get to him in time. Many days later his body was found some miles down stream. My uncle Phil was 27.

His body is buried near his hometown in Arkansas, but his spirit resides in the wind from the Chugiak Range, in the tide rising up the Turnagin Arm and across the land still as wild as when God finished creating it, where he felt most alive. I had a dream about him last dog racing season. While watching video feeds from the Anchorage start you often see those old sourdough types, in wild furs from parka hood to mukluks. I spotted one inside the chute near the cameraman, he turned to the camera and to my astonishment it was my uncle. He was 69, hair and beard no longer red, but silver. His contentment was plain to see.

Among the souveniers I plan to pack from my trip in March is some Alaskan dirt, pebbles, mud or such. I can't bury him in Alaska, but next time I'm in Arkansas, I can bury some of Alaska with him.