Alaskan & Western Reflections

by copyright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2013   Published in: Over the Transom #23--2013 Mysterious wind chimes in a land of wood and rock, Hot metal ticking down the engine heat of my rust colored ’72 Ford pickup parked on the AlCan Highway: Late May east of Whitehorse, the Yukon Territory. A short bridge crosses the Yukon River here. A bridge, An effort of steel and sweat for man, a pitiful patch on the earth Connecting this solitary highway slicing a wound through this vast Last land of, not the wild, but the free, like thousands of miles of a bandage. The breakup of winter is in retreat; the mighty Yukon River moves justly Without mercy into spring carrying and caressing all in its methodical path. All is quiet, not a car or truck within sight or sound. A silent pickup on an Empty highway, yet the mysterious sound of wind chimes in this land of wood and rock. On the riverbank, standing in melting snow, I find the mystery lies at my ...

                                 The paved part of the Dalton Highway (the Haul Road).

Copyright© Jerry McDonnell ,2008 Published: South Dakota Review ; Summer 2008, Vol. 46, No. 2 by Jerry D. McDonnell He wasn’t laughing, but all he could sadly see through his tears was this coyote image from a Road Runner cartoon, Willy being Coyote, but just now panic was running in on Darryl like a sudden squall. Jumping off his horse, Darryl Bent ran back along the pack string on the narrow ledge called a trail. A landslide section of ground was giving way beneath Willy’s hooves. Willy rode the four feet of earth down off the trail like an elevator stopping on an upper floor of the steep, rocky drop off. Now teetering on a small rock the size of a dinner plate, all four of Willy’s hooves together like a ballet dancer on point, this 15 hand, well fed, mountain conditioned horse carrying 100 pound alfalfa hay bales on each side of its Decker pack saddle calmly looked up at Darryl as if it was all in a day’s work. A steep rockslide dropped 500 fe...

   Published: in South Dakota Review ,  Spring 2007, Vol. 45, no. 1. copyright@Jerry D. McDonnell, 2006 by Jerry D. McDonnell This young man before him did not wear skins. He wore thick, heavy dark pants with side pockets like the gusiks wear. Alexie wanted to touch these pants, to feel them. The pants looked coarse and heavy, not soft like fur or smooth like a caribou hide. Black straps went from the pants over the young man’s shoulders, over a shirt with lines on it forming small black and red, organized squares presenting a pattern rarely seen in nature. The young man didn’t wear a coat, as it was a warm, sunny day on the tundra. His hat was also coarse and checkered with a part of it sticking out in front and flaps held up on each side connecting on top. Alexie silently questioned how warm these clothes would be in winter. Would these clothes protect if wet on a day when someone could see someone’s breath painting ...