ALCOHOL WAS A FACTOR: Weekly newspapering in rural Alaska

MISTY SHOWERS AND MANHATTAN FOOD PRICES

The other day, I joined an exclusive (and not in a good way) club of rural Alaska consumers.

I was doing my weekly food shopping at the local IGA and — GASP!!! — found myself shelling out nearly $17 for a bag of ten oranges.

My sister, who lives in Ketchikan, says that often you have to tell yourself “Screw it. I want this.” and fork over the cash.

Well, I wanted my oranges.

It’s only money.

Alaskans will tell you that paying more for just about everything you buy is just one of the prices you pay for all this gorgeous scenery to be able to walk mountain trails that are largely untouched; to be able to fish rivers where pollution has not yet reached its filthy fingers.

I liked all these ideas, and largely agreed with them.

Still, seventeen bucks for a bag of oranges.

By the time I left Haines, I’d learned to do what the locals do: I never even looked at prices. What did it matter, anyway? When the checker was done doing her thing, you just bent over, grabbed your ankles and paid the price for all of that unspoiled scenery.

And then you planned your hike for the next day.

My sister called me on Thanksgiving morning and wanted to know what I was doing in my Alaska “hotel” room.

I laughed.

My abode was a dingy little frontier cave located in the ass-end of the downtown newspaper office building. Part of my gig here included “free” rent from the newspaper owner.

Well, there is no “free” lunch or Alaska living quarters. I’ve been in man caves in my life, but this is more like the break room at a rural gas station, an outhouse with couches.

Tom Morphet, the owner, has lived here before and considers the place fairly posh by Haines standards.

There are TWO rooms, after all, and a so-called living room filled with lamps that don’t light, three-legged tables and cheesy faux-leather coach and chair set you might find in a Salvation Army cast-off bin.

But, hey, Morphet, who lives in a cabin in the woods off the grid, says the bathtub has a reclining back where you can take a luxurious bath.

Please.

The kitchen had a small sink and toaster oven. On the counter was a jar of peanut butter that my predecessor apparently lived in — peanut butter sandwiches with white bread. A bread knife still slathered in hardened peanut butter sat on the counter.

The shower water came out a mist. One night, I was awakened by GLUB-GLUB sounds of a high school chemistry experiment gone wrong — all night long; glub-freaking-glub.

In the morning, I noticed that the bathtub has backed up with a black sludge. The toilet wouldn’t go down.

When I tried, noises came from the sink basin.

I called Georgia, the landlord and Alaskan native. She told me a tenant upstairs had apparently been flushing cat litter down the toilet and that her on-site son had worked all night to fix the problem, which apparently migrated south into my dungeon quarters.

The son worked all day to clear the mess.

The shower pressure remains misty.

Like a cold wintry southeastern Alaska rain.