Cooper Creek. Thanksgiving

Pitch black, Dad and I were post-holing a trail through three feet of fresh fallen snow. The temperature was near zero and the chill factor wasn’t unnoticed. Twinkling stars and the Big Dipper reenforced my sense of belonging and place. I recognized the constellations but didn’t know their names. I should have been more attentive during astronomy class at Anchorage’s high school named for Robert Service. The Bard’s Sam McGee surely knew where he was from the position of those sparkling lights and the warmth of his furnace.

This particular evening had all the markings of another epic father-son bonding experience. There were a lot of those in my life. This one was Thanksgiving, decades ago, at our Cooper Creek Cabin along Kenai River. A snowstorm had just taken an overdue breath. The Jensen family was preparing for an evening feast.

Alaska snowstorms are often followed by tranquility. That sometimes depends upon if you are inside or outside of the cabin. This particular Thanksgiving evening, the electricity had just gone out. Branches were bent from snow as they draped over power lines. Meanwhile, an eleven-pound turkey with stuffing was cooling prematurely in the Westinghouse electric oven. Frantic and noticeably cursing under her breath mom was finding her way around the small kitchen with stick matches. She was not pleased. This meant that we weren’t supposed to be, either.

Complicating matters, Dad’s pride and joy generator was about 50 yards from the cabin. He bought the contraption from Montgomery Wards in Anchorage years earlier after studying it for months in the department store’s mail-order catalog. Barely hiding his glee, he’d waited for years to embrace an opportunity to finally justify its purchase after years of explaining “It’ll come in handy one day.” But now was not the time to gloat.

Dad and I had four tasks ahead of us: refill our kerosene lanterns outside the cabin; string a series of extension cords along our path, start the generator; and ‘get the damn oven working again.’ Flustered, we grabbed what we could find (which did not include a flashlight) and stomped a new path to the woods which was home to the outhouse.

The generator was discreetly sheltered in a wood box enclosure behind the outhouse. The questionable excuse for placing it there suggested that a closet-sized building with a quarter-moon cut-out in the plywood might buffer the engine noise while also lending slight shelter to a generator that came from a store with the derogatory Monkey Wards nickname. An ulterior motive for stashing it out of sight was more likely to avoid the recurring question “Why did you buy that thing in the first place?”

Just one Coleman lantern was burning by the time we reached the outhouse. I unscrewed the fuel lid with cold fingers. It was impossible to do this with gloves and time was of the essence. Dad was ready with the red rectangular kerosene can. He began pouring the fuel into the lantern’s tank. Glug, Glug. Glug. It occasionally slurped over the funnel and onto my fingers with spillage here and there. That was acceptable collateral loss. We were in a hurry and knew that a running generator could be the key to walking back into the cabin to a welcoming mom and wife. Suddenly, a large belch of kerosene spewed out of the fuel can as it gasped for air. It splashed up and onto the lanterns burning wick, saturated my right hand and made its way up my fore-arm. Then, Dad and I watched in slow motion what might best be described as a land-based, aurora borealis as flames danced from my coat sleeve on a path up my shoulder. I dropped the lantern into the snow while waving my blazing arm in the air in a failed attempt put out the flames. That didn’t help matters.

Rare clarity came to mind as my hand and jacket flared in the night. Somehow, I remembered that I was hip deep in snow. I threw my body into the snow bank. By some stroke of luck the fire was extinguished in seconds. The only injuries were mental along with a small loss of hair. “Well, that was exciting,” I whispered to dad as he helped me back to my feet.

Of course, this meant that the lantern’s flame was also extinguished. And the generator was still idle. A fully cooked dinner and returning to the cabin seemed a remote Alaskan dream. The only lights were those we could see in the sky. The only sounds were those of water gurgling through ice on the shores of the Kenai. Dad checked to make sure I was okay. Knowing everything was good, he made a subsequent reference that I had just displayed an amazing replica of the Statue of Liberty.

Eventually, we pulled it together. Dad and I fumbled around in the dark, filled and restarted the second lantern. He gave the pull cord a couple yanks and the generator sputtered to life. Lights flickered through the cabin windows. They signaled an invitation that it was okay to come back inside. Dad knew he would have to conceal his satisfaction when we returned to the kitchen. He was an experienced poker player and understood that there’s a lot to be said for timing and words unspoken.

I never really grasped that wisdom called discretion. I’m always trying to add humor to a situation without contemplating the cost. So, as soon as I walked through the cabin door, I stepped up on my best Robert Service soapbox and proclaimed “Dad tried to cremate me next to the outhouse.” Sam McGee might have appreciated that reference and I proceeded to lead the laughter with my own chortles. I should have known better coming from a family who lives by the motto “Don’t pat yourself on the back too much, you might break your arm.”

Eventually, the table was prepared and supper would be served much later than planned that Thanksgiving evening. Not one complaint was heard over the crackling fire from the wood stove. The setting was lit by candles and two kerosene lanterns which were hung from ceiling logs above. The soothing ‘hushing’ sound from the lanterns helped calm the atmosphere while the buzz of the generator in the distance added an extra twinkle to dad’s eyes. As for mom, she was content to know that the bird was completely cooked. A few sips of her favorite Cabernet Sauvignon didn’t hurt a bit.

Soon, we held hands around the table and said grace. We ate, laughed and gave thanks for our many blessings. I recognize now, more than ever, how much we have to be thankful for in Alaska under eight stars of gold with memories never too many to be told.