The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

“Yupik people are tough. That man probably walks three miles every day.”

I frown. “What people?”

“Yupik. Some are Athabascan, or Aleut.” Jonah makes a left turn. “The villages that we fly into are mostly Yupik communities.”

“Is that what Agnes is?”

“Yup. She grew up in a village up the river. Her mom and brothers are still there, living a subsistence lifestyle.” He adds quickly, perhaps after seeing my frown, “They live off the land.”

“Oh! So, sort of like farm-to-table?” Unlike all the other exchanges I’ve had with Jonah, I feel like I’m getting useful information about Western Alaska.

“Sure. If you want to compare an entire culture’s way of life to the latest culinary trend . . .” he murmurs dryly.

I study the faces of people as we pass them. About half of them are Alaska Natives, while the other half are Caucasian, except for the one East Indian who’s standing next to a battered Tahoma with its hood propped up and steam swirling from its engine.

“What are those people doing?” I point to three men in their twenties trudging along the road, two supporting either end of a mattress, the third carrying an awkward-looking box. A woman walks about ten feet ahead with a lamp in one hand and a toddler perched on her hip.

“My guess would be moving.”

“By foot?”

“They’re probably just shifting a block or two. People don’t want to burn gas for that, not at almost seven bucks a gallon.”

“I take it that’s a lot?” I hazard, quickly adding, “We pay in liters.” Not that I could gauge the value in any measurement, but I’m tired of feeling like an idiot in front of Jonah.

Jonah lifts a hand in casual greeting at a passing man on an ATV. “Double the gas price in Anchorage. Almost three times as much as the Lower Forty-eight.”

The Lower Forty-eight? Do I dare ask? Or will that earn me another dry, thinly veiled “you’re so ignorant” response.

I reach for my phone to Google the term, but then my hand freezes as I remember my phone doesn’t work here.

“That’s what we call the rest of America,” Jonah murmurs, as if able to read my mind. “Up here, all our fuel comes in on a barge, and then gets dumped into a fuel farm for storage or carried up the river to the villages in smaller boats. That’s a lot of added cost in transportation and storage. And that’s just to keeping a car going. Every one of these vehicles cost thousands to get here, on top of what they cost to buy. A lot of people around here don’t own one. Those who do take good care of them so they last.”

I guess that explains why my dad is driving a truck that’s at least fifteen years old when it sounds like by normal standards he could afford better.

I quietly take stock of the vehicles we pass as if to prove Jonah’s words. They’re all older, worn models, with plenty of bumps and bruises. Fords, GMCs, Hondas. A lot of pickup trucks. Not a shiny BMW in sight.

A worn white sedan with orange writing on its side that reads TAXI CAB and a phone number drives by, surprising me. “You have cabs here?”

Jonah snorts. “Plenty of those. More per capita than any other US city. Five bucks flat will get you anywhere you want to go in town. Seven to the airport.”

I wish I had known. I would have gladly called one instead of dealing with Jonah. Though, he’s being civil now. More than civil, actually. He’s using full sentences.

Maybe that’s why I dare ask, “Have you lived in Alaska your whole life?”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if maybe I misread his civility, if maybe I should have shut up while I was ahead.

“I was born in Anchorage. We moved to Vegas when I was twelve. I moved back about ten years ago.”

“Vegas. Really . . .”

Sharp blue eyes glance over at me quickly. “Why do you say it like that?”

“No reason. I’ve never met anyone who actually lived in Vegas.” My only weekend there was a drunken, costly three-day blur with Diana and two other friends for our twenty-first birthdays. By the time I curled up in my seat to fly home, I was more than ready to leave.

“Yeah, well, there’s more to it than the Strip. Most locals won’t be caught dead down there.”

“Do you miss it?”