A Year in the Woods
By KAREN REED HADALSKI
At 21, I became a VISTA volunteer. My assignment was to teach English
and do community development in Alaska’s bush country. In 1966, there
was no plumbing or electricity, no roads or cars in the Athabascan
Indian village of Stony River. Except for one snowmobile, owned by the
village chief, the only means of transportation were snowshoes, dog
sleds, canoes and outboard motor boats.
There wasn’t much to do in my small log cabin, so I spent a lot of time
outside. When I sat in silence, taking in the vast arctic sky with stars
the size of basketballs and colorful streaks of light flashing and
dancing across their lush, black background, I was mesmerized.
I was also overcome by an awareness of how minutely small we are—yet,
how special and significant we must be in the mind of our Creator to
have been given such an unutterably magnificent world in which to live.
During the day, I often took time to rest, listening to the wind and
the wolves howling in the distance; opening myself to the energizing
warmth of the midday sun; taking in the astonishing beauty of a dark
forest blanketed in crystalline whiteness.
As I just allowed myself to Be, I became aware of a deeper Self that
had nothing at all to do with my identity as “Karen.” This self seemed
more authentic, solid and timeless. It felt grounded and ethereal, at
once, making me feel a strong connection to both the world of creation
and its Creator. I thought this must be the “soul” I’d heard so much
about from ministers and Sunday school teachers but could never locate
when I looked in the mirror.
Prayer came to be spontaneous and felt as vital, natural and
stimulating as any “in person” conversation I’d ever enjoyed. And, for
the first time, I experienced the electric excitement of waiting for and
listening to the response to my prayers.
I wondered why the church I was raised in never taught me this, instead
of words to memorize, songs to sing and commandments to follow that
would get me into Heaven. To my mind, this was Heaven.
When I left Alaska, I embarked upon a serious study of metaphysics
and the mystical aspects of world religions. Returning to college, I
became an English major and focused on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s philosophy
of Transcendentalism, English Romanticism, and the strong connection
between the internal life of Shakespeare’s characters and the natural
world in which they lived. I went on to obtain a graduate degree and to
teach these subjects for many years.
Living with Athabascan Indians and really getting to know them,
despite our cultural differences and language barrier, was another
turning point for me.
Relationships I’d participated in up to this point were largely the
outcome of being thrown together as relatives, neighbors, classmates or
co-workers. We spent most of our time together doing things, going
places, having superficial conversations.
Here, time spent in social interaction was used to get to know and
understand each other. Because of our language differences, my Alaskan
friends and I had to connect and communicate through eye and facial
expressions, touch, a kind of “mind reading,” and a combination of
English, Yuk and sign language.
This intense effort to really “get” one another’s meanings and
feelings, along with the common experience of surviving a harsh winter,
sharing our resources, and teaching and learning from one another,
created a stronger connection and bond of affection than I’d ever
experienced. At the end of one short year, I felt I had come to know
Gusty, Marvera and Ivan far better than many of the friends I grew up
with.
This new way of being and connecting with others served me well
throughout my life. In addition to inspiring deeper, more intimate
friendships, I credit my ability to move easily and comfortably between
diverse social stratifications, ethnicities and lifestyles to this
experience. The skill of connecting at a core level and communicating
from a place of authenticity was of great assistance to me in my work
with students from various socio-economic backgrounds, as a social
worker, and as a family literacy coordinator in Philadelphia’s most
poverty-stricken neighborhoods. Living off the land and being cut off
from grocery stores, clothiers and all modern conveniences gave me a
great sense of self-reliance and taught me that it is possible to
survive—even thrive—with very little money and very few things.
I came to understand that what is really necessary to living a happy,
fulfilling life has nothing at all to do with how much money we make,
how many possessions we accumulate or what job title we go by.
My Alaskan neighbors fished in unpolluted rivers and streams; hunted
only what was necessary to feed the village; gathered rosehips, berries
and other nutritious fruits and seeds; made warm, waterproof,
long-lasting clothing and mukluks from the skins and hides of animals;
built modest homes, and heated them, from the trees of the forests; and
created medicines and poultices from the roots, bark and plants that
surrounded them.
The children were educated in life skills necessary to survive in and
conserve their environment, the oral tradition of their forefathers, and
a spirituality of wonder and personal communication with God. Their
parents made their toys, played with them, ate with them and—on very
cold nights—slept with them. Families were happy and close, and
individuals truly enjoyed and respected each other’s uniqueness.
Somehow, just knowing that it is possible to survive without all of
the conveniences and entrapments of modern society has given me a sense
of fearlessness and inner security.
I can honestly say that I haven’t spent a moment of my life being
anxious about not having “enough” or not being able to survive. I’ve
also never spent a moment of my life feeling the inner loneliness and
emptiness that seems to be an inevitable by-product of today’s
fast-moving, impersonal world.
It’s been 40 years since I lived in pre-pipeline Alaska. Yet, the
subject still comes up in conversation. When it does, I am usually
asked: “Is it really dark 24 hours a day?” (Yes, until it gradually
builds up to being light 24 hours.) “How cold did it get?” (30 degrees
below zero.) “Did you learn how to handle a dog sled?” (Sort of, and
with great difficulty.)
“Did you have to use an outhouse?” (Mostly I used a “honey bucket.”) “Do
Eskimos really live in igloos?” (Yes, as temporary shelter when on
hunting expeditions.) “How did you stay in touch with the outside
world?” (I had access to a short-wave radio, and the mail plane came a
few times a month.)
It isn’t easy to casually interject into such conversations that the
most valuable and surprising gifts I received from this adventure were
self-awareness, self-reliance, a new set of values and a more fulfilling
way of connecting to and interacting with life.
Karen Reed Hadalski is a freelance writer,
columnist for Pet Tails magazine, and author of the novella “Enduring
Destiny” and a forthcoming book on the subject of karma. She lives in
Virginia Beach.
