Dutch Clarke - The Early Years. Brian Ratty
out of my sleeping bag, I moved to the edge of the river to brush my teeth and wash. As I knelt down, I looked out to see two, then three, fish breaking water in the center of the pool. Fish for breakfast, not a bad idea! I’d save my washing for later so as not to scare the fish. From one of the trail bags I removed my fly pole, reel and a wet fly. In a few moments I was back at the dark green pool. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gus, now awake, watching my every move. Maybe he was hungry too.
I was in luck, a strike on the second cast. I hooked a fat 14 or15 inch sea run cutthroat trout that knew how to fight. Reeling in the first fish, my long bamboo pole bent down with its tip almost in the water. It was a good fight. In the next few minutes, two more fish, each weighing about two pounds, joined the first, lying on the rocks of the riverbank. Now to put my knives to the test, stowing my fishing gear, I set to the task of cleaning the fish. As I threw some of the guts into the water, I noticed small crawfish coming out from under rocks and devouring the innards. Crawfish... I hadn’t factored them in when I was planning my available food list. I wondered what other things haven’t I thought of? Damn. I was still full of doubts, and things like this didn’t put my mind at ease.
Overnight, the fire had burned down, so I stirred the coals, threw in bits of twigs and grass and the fire jumped to life. Warming my hands, I watched the white smoke rise into the air as the fire took hold. Nothing could be wasted on this trip, so I moved the tin pot of last night’s coffee closer to the fire.
During my training in New Mexico, I learned a few outdoor cooking methods. “Indian style” seemed like a good way to cook these fat delicacies. Near the water, I found three sticks about 3 feet long, which I sharpened. With the sharpened end first, I stuck it into the fat end of the cleaned trout and slid them the length of the fish. Then I placed the other ends of the sticks into the sandy ground around my campfire. Securing the kabobs with rocks, the skewers now held the fish in the hot air over the flames. After a few minutes, I turned the fish. What a wonderful aroma, cooking fish, coffee and burning wood. Soon I began eating my first fish right off the stick. As I ate, I saw Gus move to within six or seven feet of the fire, laying across some small rocks and watching my every move. When I finished with the first fish, eating all but the tail and bones, I threw the carcass towards Gus... he didn't move an inch. The same thing happened with the second fish... he wouldn’t move towards the remains on the rocks. About halfway through the third fish, I’d eaten enough. This time I threw the half-eaten fish directly at Gus's face and with one swipe of his powerful jaws, the fish tail, bones and meat were gone. A few minutes later both the remaining two tails and carcasses were also gone. This surprised me, for it was the first time that Gus had eaten in front of me or taken any food from me. A sign we were bonding? Maybe, but I couldn’t count on it. Within a half hour I’d washed my dishes, cleaned up my camp and packed my bedroll, including the still damp clothing from yesterday. All these items were loaded on my animals and we broke camp to move up the next trail. By this evening’s camp, I hoped to be on the other side of Thunder Mountain.
From The Grave
In Seattle I changed airlines and flew a new American DC4 to Denver and then on to New York. The plane was full again, not a spare seat to be found. As when I’d traveled from Ketchikan, about half the men on the flight were in military uniforms. This made me think about the war that was raging in Europe and how this event might affect my future. I’d wired Uncle Roy from Ketchikan, telling him the date I thought I’d arrive, and I planned on telephoning him from Denver with confirmation. These last two trips via air were new to me. During all my other trips to and from Alaska, I’d taken the train and the ferryboats, which had taken almost seven days of traveling time. From my departure at Ketchikan to my arrival in New York I’d figured it would take about 16 hours of airports and flight time, barring any delays. This was indeed an improvement in this new era of modern travel.
In Denver, I called Uncle Roy to tell him that my plane would arrive at the New York Airport at 11:30 p.m. He assured me that he would be there to pick me up. When I got to New York it was past midnight due to weather delays. As I got off the plane, I scanned the faces of the arrival crowd for Uncle Roy. Not seeing him, I headed towards baggage claim. I’d only taken a few steps when I heard a voice shouting,
"Master Clarke.... Master Clarke."
Looking around I found a Negro man, who I didn't know walking towards me.
"Master Clarke, I'm Mr. Roy's chauffeur, Henry, and he asked me to pick ya up and take you to Fairview."
"Oh, where is Uncle Roy? This afternoon on the telephone he told me that he would be here."
"He had to take the evening train to Pittsburgh, some kind of problem at one of the plants. He told me to tell ya that he would be back on the morning train. This way sir, I'll get your bags."
Things hadn't changed, only now it was Uncle Roy who was busy with business.
For the first time, I sat in the back of Uncle Roy's 1939 Cadillac Town Car. It was a luxurious automobile. I remember when he bought it that Grandfather had a fit about the way he was spending his money, not that it was any of Senior’s concern. It was another two hours to Long Island and Fairview, so I made small talk with Henry for a few moments, then sat back in my seat and watched the city go by. It was a warm evening and I had one of the windows partly down as we drove towards the turnpike. The smells of the city drifted through the open window. It was a mixture of garbage, gas fumes and people. This smell symbolized why I had come to dislike New York City. It was too big, too crowded, too dirty, and the people who lived here seemed to have no faces and no personalities. Even as late as it was, I could see and smell that it had not changed. This city reminded me of how much I missed Ketchikan. My thoughts soon returned to that little fishing village and the way of life I had come to love.
We arrived at Fairview about 2 a.m. Henry hurried my bags up the grand staircase and placed them in my old room as I looked around the old musty house.
The chauffeur returned and asked, “Master Clarke, should I wake the cook to get ya something to eat or drink?”
"No thanks, all I want to do is sleep. Tell Uncle Roy I'll see him in the morning. Good night, Henry, it’s been nice meeting you." With this I climbed the stairs to my room.
The door swung shut on a creaking hinge behind me and I stared around my old room. It hadn’t changed since the day I went off to boarding school. It was stale and drab, as was the whole house, yet clean and neat. The pictures and items of my youth still filled the space. Memorabilia, mostly of baseball and movie stars, brought back a wave of memories. Some were good, but mostly my thoughts of this house and room were of indifference. As I lay down on the bed and reached to turn off the light, I noticed the fading black-and-white picture on the nightstand. It was my parents’ wedding picture—the only image I had of them together. My fingers reached over and stroked the frame. I’d held it in my hands and stared into their happy faces a thousand times before and always wondered how my life would have been different if only they had lived. Within a few moments, I was asleep, their picture clutched in my hands.
The next thing I knew, it was late morning. The bedside clock showed 10:20 a.m. I’d slept all night with my clothes and shoes on. I felt dirty, as I hadn’t had a change of clothes, showered or shaved for almost three days. Thirty minutes later I emerged from the bathroom feeling like a new man. With hopes of finding Hazel and getting a bite to eat, I headed towards the kitchen. As I opened the door to the kitchen, I found a chubby older white woman working the stove. She looked up at me and said,
"You must be Master Clarke. I’ve heard all about you from your Uncle. I'm Bess, the cook. Would you like some coffee and breakfast or maybe lunch?"
"Only coffee… where is Hazel? I thought she would be here."
Bess took a cup from the shelf above the stove and poured the steaming coffee.
"She and her husband retired after Mr. Clarke passed away. They were so sorry you couldn't make it to the funeral.