There's no genuine logic to living in the Copper Valley. It's in an awkwardly remote location, even for the sprawling Alaska road system. The Copper Valley is just a little too distant from the port of Anchorage, 200 miles away, and all that a coastal city has to offer. Things like plywood, and apples, underwear and chairs, movies, McDonald's, Walmart and Costco. 

Not having easy access to those things makes the Copper Valley somewhat ragged around the edges. This is a place where you have to do without. And where if something has to be done, the fastest, and often the only way, is to do it yourself.

Today, the drive to Anchorage, in a modern car takes about three and a half hours. But it hasn't always been like that. Not long ago, it took five hours and more. Many people refused to "go into town" for weeks, even months, because the trip was so arduous,

The roads are better now. In the past 15 years, the narrow Glenn Highway that links the Copper Valley to Anchorage, has been gradually improved, through road projects that remove mountains, straighten the road, and improve the grade, slowly bringing the Glenn Highway more into compliance with what a typical American "2 lane" country road might look like -- and less like what it was until quite recently -- a paved over trail through the wilderness, that wound back and forth, up and down hills with huge drop offs, with a most no line-of-sight for cars. In many parts of the Glenn, one side of the road is smack against a steep, boulder studded cliff -- and, especially during the springm those boulders suddenly hurtle down onto the road. On the other side, the cliff continues downward, to the Matanuska River, far below. Frozen matanuska river. 

And there ar eno guardrails. Just you and the empty miles of highway, high on the edge, surrounded by unnamed mountains across the wide river valley, in the distance. 

It was so stressful, driving back and forth  to Anchorage over the Glenn Highway, back in the 1980's and 1990's, that local travelers would turn, coming from either direction, exhausted,at into Eureka Lodge after going only 50 miles, to rest up, drink some coffee, and talk to the welcoming lodge owners. 

In many ways, Eureka operated then like one of the old roadhouses -- but instead of being 10 miles along the trail, as lodges were in the old days when people walked, it was five times as far. Because that was 

After the stop at Eureka, loal people would continue on their trek into Anchorage. 

It may seem that a paved highway like the Glenn highway -- a primary rouite through an entire state -- would have certain standards. But then, and even today, it is lacking common highway amenities in ways that can terrify the uninitiated. Locals just suppress their fears of huge falling boulders and steep drop offs 

For example, even on this arterial rouite, there are frequently no guardrails. And it's not as if the drop offs on the Glenn are little gullies. There are no guardrails, for miles -- and the drop offs head straight down, hundreds of feet, off the mountain you're driving along,  to the glacially-fed, wild and uninhabited Matanuska River.

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Citizen's Arrest On The Tok Cutoff In Slana

When There Are Only Three State Troopers In A Place As Large As Ohio, People Have To Step Up

  Northcountry Communications. All Rights Reserved.

In 1993, Copper Valley people captured a runaway fugitive on a snow machine.  It was a dramatic saga that spanned the entire length of the huge, rolling, wild Copper River Valley of Alaska. 

The story crossed the trackless snowy wilderness and ended at a sagging little lodge that was located out on the Tok Cutoff, the highway leading out of Alaska -- the road to Tok and the Canadian border. 
The overland route from Lake Louise to Slana, Alaska.
Map, Bob Wysong

When the tale was over, the unique and historic role of Alaska's lodges and roadhouses as safety nets -- the lighthouses of the highway -- was clearly on display.

The story began on the morning of November 10th. It was an Alaskan winter Wednesday. On that dark morning, Vernon Bussing, who lived high on the tundra at Gunsight Mountain, on the empty Glenn Highway, 70 miles west of the little central Alaska hub town of Glennallen, looked over at a neighbor's cabin and saw it had been broken into.  The isolated cabin belonged to Bussing's friend, Joe Warren. 

Bussing got ahold of Warren. They realized a rifle must had been stolen. So they called the Troopers, who drove out all the way -- 60 miles in winter -- to Gunsight Mountain to investigate. 

The rifle was, indeed gone. Troopers stopped at neighboring cabins, and personally told other local people (in this day before emails and cell phones) about the break-in. They asked them to keep their eyes open for suspicious travelers.

That night, at around 8:30 pm, Troopers got a call. Someone had seen a tan 1977 Chevy Nova in the Eureka area,  between Gunsight and Glennallen.  In this part of Alaska, where the population is so sparse, anything unusual, including an unfamiliar vehicle,  is easy enough to spot. Especially in winter, after the summer tourist season is over. Thinking that the Nova might possibly have been involved in the break-in, Glennallen Trooper Don Pierce drove on out to Eureka.

Near the tiny Tazlina Glacier Lodge on the Glenn, 4 miles from Lake Louise Junction, and over 50 miles from Glennallen, Trooper Pierce spotted the Chevy Nova. When Trooper Pierce put on his siren and lights, the Chevy Nova raced away. Hitting the Lake Louise Road, the dirt access route to the remote recreational lake, the Chevy hurtled along the full 16 miles.  Finally, one of the passengers leaped from the moving car, and Trooper Pierce arrested him.

He was a 27-year old Palmer resident.

There weren't many Troopers stationed in Glennallen, for a region as big as Ohio. But two of the region's other Troopers – Sgt. Greg Tanner and Fish & Wildlife Trooper Brian Stephenson – had followed Trooper Pierce in separate police cars to the scene.

Tanner took over the prisoner, who police said had been involved in the cabin burglary. Troopers Pierce and Stephenson followed the Chevy Nova. A mile later, they saw the car had been driven off the road into the ditch. Its driver had fled  on foot.

The two Troopers followed the footprints through the snow to the end of the Lake Louise Road. They found a place where a snowmachine had been parked. It had been stolen; driven away into the scrub forest. The Troopers believed that the snowmachine, a recent model orange and black longtrack, belonged to Jesse Dicks of Lake Louise. 

By 1993, the manufacture of snowmachines (or, as most Americans called them, "snowmobiles") was changing radically. Up to this point, snowmachines were bulky, unwieldy tin cans. But now, they were dramatically better. Locals were using them to head deeper into the wilds. You could put these new machines into reverse; a great advancement. They had big lights, were easier to steer, had hand warmers  – and you could even open the hood up and cook burritos and hot dogs on the blazing-hot engine. In this new age of technology, the simple snow machine had turned into a multi-purpose technological whiz. 

The Troopers looked for the missing snowmachine and its trail until 1:30 in the morning, before giving up.

The rustic Slana, Alaska log cabin U.S. post office. 
The next day, Troopers came up with a possible identification of the man they thought had ridden into the night on the snowmobile. They thought he was a 34-year old Anchorage resident.

Up to this point, the Troopers had relied on the loose local network of the initial handful of Eureka-to-Gunsight Mountain residents, and on word of mouth for help. Now Sgt. Tanner turned to the big gun: KCAM Radio. In these days before smart phones, computers, emails and texts, everybody listened to KCAM, which was broadcast out of Glennallen. There were isolated cabins all over the Copper Valley without phones. But everybody had a radio. And everybody tuned in.

If you wanted to know what was happening locally, you really had to listen to the radio.  So Sgt. Tanner called in to KCAM a physical description of the runaway from the Trooper files. And KCAM agreed to broadcast the information on the radio immediately, uncharacteristically breaking into regular non-news programming.

Over 120 road miles away, far across the taiga and tundra from Lake Louise, there was a scrappy little place known as Duffy's Roadhouse. Bill Schrank, a retired Alaska State Trooper, worked there as the cook for his sister, Thelma. It was the next day, Thursday, and Bill was busy with his routine morning chores. Duffy's was a one-story, roughly-built restaurant and liquor store on Tok Cutoff. Accessible to the small cabins and homes in the immediate vicinity, which were tucked away in the permafrost-plagued black spruce forests, Duffy's was a glowing beacon of warmth and companionship for the lonely homesteaders of nearby Slana.

Slana – which had once been an important Ahtna Athabascan camp – was now America's very last legal homesteading community. When homesteading ended in Alaska in 1986, 800 pieces of Slana land had been staked. But poor soil, isolation and below-zero temperatures drove off 70% of Slana's hopefuls. Only the most rugged 100 homesteaders got patents to their land.

Duffy's was like a home away from home for the lonely Slana homesteaders.  And Bill Schrank lent a welcome, friendly place for these hearty, solitary people to sit and chat. Gabby and companionable, Bill offered a comforting sense of belonging. People straggled in to Bill's lunch counter at Duffy's to eat a burger and fries.  To drink coffee. To gossip and talk about their wood gathering, their winter food situation, their broken-down generators, their non-existent love lives, and their rambling thoughts about their neighbors, their boots, and the fate of the universe.  When the friendly welcome at Duffy's wore somewhat thin, people shifted gears, and mosied on over to the nearby Midway Store, a little washeteria and grocery store down in a gully, 2 miles south of Duffy's. And, at Midway, they'd start all over again, sitting around, eating candy bars and chips, drinking pop -- and chatting with whoever might come by to do the laundry -- the folks who, like them, were seeking  shelter from the loneliness of their isolated cabins far off across the swamps. 

A stranger had come into Duffy's that morning for breakfast. The man had been shooting the breeze with another customer, Ray Alex of Slana. "I was back doing paperwork, and stuff," said Bill Schrank, later. "The guy's telling Ray how he'd driven this snowmachine for six hours, all the way from Lake Louise." 

This was a noteworthy achievement. Nobody drove snowmachines from Lake Louise, cross-country to Slana. And the admission by this unknown person was a mistake. "Ray got into his pickup. He was going to leave and go down to Midway," said Bill Schrank. And as he was fiddling with the dials in his car, that was when Ray heard the bulletin from KCAM on the radio "And he goes," said Bill Schrank, 'Darn!' You know. Because they described him to a T. 'Darn."" And then Ray Alex said to himself, 'That's the guy sitting up there at Duffy's!'"

Ray Alex arrived at Midway Store. He told Christine Wilcox, the owner's wife, that he had to use her phone to call the Troopers in Glennallen 80 miles away.  "We'll try to get somebody out there as soon as we can," they told Ray Alex. "See if you can hold him. Take Gene Wilcox with you."

For some reason, ex-Troopers were attracted to Slana. It was a tiny, desperately poor  settlement, but two former Troopers lived there.  Bill Schrank of Duffy's had been a Trooper for 8 years. Gene Wilcox, who moved to Slana with his wife in 1988 to run the Midway Store, was also a former Alaska State Trooper. Gene had served in law enforcement for over 13 years.

So that November day in 1993, the little stretch of the Tok Cutoff in Slana, Alaska was not the right place to be if you happened to be on the run from the law.

Sgt Tanner, down in Glennallen,  told Ray and Gene over the phone at Midway that the man was armed and dangerous. "Every indication was he was very determined not to be captured," the Sergeant warned. 

As Gene Wilcox and Ray Alex drove on back to Duffy's, Bill Schrank had moved on with his morning chores and was now busy shoveling a path through the snow to the fuel tanks, for the fuel truck.

"I'm out shoveling snow, and I've got no idea this is going on," Bill said later. "I got back inside, and Ray comes up and said, 'You got your gun?' And he said, 'There's a guy out on the pay phone out front that the Troopers are looking for. They said they want us to hold him. Hold him at gunpoint, if you have to'."  

The "pay phone" Ray had seen the man using out front at Duffy's was operated by Copper Valley Telephone Cooperative. It was attached to the log wall between the bar and restaurant doors. The little phone represented the emergency phone system of the day. Many Alaska lodges had a system like this. The phone was out there to help travelers or locals who might need help on this empty stretch of road. At that time, the Copper Valley had a number of pay phones in lonely stretches all along the road system. Some were outside of various lodge doors, such as Duffy's or Paxson Lodge. Some phones were on posts, standing out on the highway. 

Bill Schrank couldn't believe that Sgt. Tanner had actually mentioned using guns. So he  called Trooper dispatch in Glennallen to check. "I called Linda at the Troopers, and I said, 'What's going on'? She told me, and she said, 'Be careful.' And I said, 'No problem.' I guess they figured -- with myself and Gene -- we wouldn't have a problem."

Meanwhile, the man was still standing outside in the cold, on the phone.  Ray Alex, and the two former Troopers -- Gene Wilcox and Bill Schrank -- made up a plan of what to do next. "The three of us had a huddle," said Bill. "He was still on the pay phone."

Their solution was direct and simple. Grab him. The outdoor phone was between the doors. One of the doors came out of the bar. The other came out of the cafe. Greg Wilcox and Bill Schrank marched outside through each door, and swooped in on the suspect. "Gene took him from the left side, while he was talking. I took him from the right side. And basically, we just snatched him off the telephone. I happened to have a pair of handcuffs that I keep here. I cuffed him, and searched him. We took him to the back room, and sat him in a chair, and waited for the Troopers. He wasn't going anywhere."

It's a long, long way to Slana from Glennallen Trooper headquarters even in summer. But in winter, it's even longer. In big cities in the "Lower 48', there's a goal of a 7 to 10 minute emergency response time. But in the Copper River Valley, emergency or Trooper response time can easily run two hours or more -- just to get to a car wreck, medical incident, or scene of violence. For locals along the route, these runs were especially harrowing. The ambulance or Trooper would trundle on by.Then hours and hours later, would scurry on back, sirens still blazing. It was never quick. There was no such thing as "rapid response" in the Copper River Valley.

That November, the wait for the Troopers lasted quite a while. Due to the warm weather that winter, the roads were unusually icy and it  took the Glennallen Troopers even longer than usual to drive to Slana to pick up the suspect.

The Slana incident was not typical. But, in this huge territory, it was like deputizing the citizenry in an emergency back in the days of the Wild West.

Sgt. Greg Tanner, a few days later, praised fast-thinking local people in a lengthy interview in the Copper River Country Journal. "It's a delicate situation," Tanner acknowledged, "for the Troopers to ask someone to do that. It's good to see, when we have our Troopers scattered out thin, we have people. That's all we have." 

The Copper River Country Journal reached everyone, for hundreds of miles around. It was mailed, free, to all the people at Gunsight, Eureka, Glennallen, and up in Slana, as well as all places in between.  Sgt. Tanner described how the saga unfolded. First with a neighbor, watching out for another neighbor's cabin. Then the call from the Eureka area about a suspicious car. And the way that KCAM broadcast the bulletin of a futive on the run immediately, breaking into its regular programming instead of watiing for the 12 o'clock news. Followed by Ray Alex, sitting at Duffy's and turning on the car radio, and then calling the Troopers. And finally, the successful citizens' arrest by former Troopers Wilcox and Schrank, in spite of personal danger.

Gene Wilcox, of Midway, was modest about his participation. "All we did was just offer assistance. There wasn't anything more than that," he said. "It was the element of surprise. He didn't recognize us. He just had no idea who we were." Besides, Gene added, "I think community participation and aiding the Troopers is very important. I think they've got a good detachment down there. They need public support."

If you're running a 24-hour gas station, 7 days a week, you need an actual staff. Ideally over 6 or 7 staff members. But the state rarely allowed  the little Glennallen contingent more than 3 or 4 Troopers. Even though the total number of road miles, and possible directions, through rugged dangerous territory was not paralleled anywhere else in Alaska. Glennallen is a small community. But it's linked to roads headed to Canada, to Fairbanks, to Denali Park, to Valdez, Kennicott, Palmer, Wasilla and Anchorage. The roads splay out of Glennallen like nowhere else along the highways, other than the much larger town of Fairbanks. 

Just that August in 1993, only a few months before the arrest at Duffy's Roadhouse, Sgt. Tanner had discussed the severe staffing and logistical problems that local Troopers faced. In a wide-ranging interview with the Copper River Country Journal, the Sergeant had pointed out there were only three Troopers in the entire region – and they recently had to add Valdez to the service area. And Valdez was over 130 miles away -- through a high mountain pass.  

Glennallen's sergeant  told the Journal, "We're having lots of accidents. I see a marked increase in single vehicle rollovers, which is directly accountable to less enforcement out there. It doesn't matter whether a person's driving too fast, or whether a person's just tired. When they see Troopers on the road they pay more attention."  

Tanner said the Glennallen division was down in staff members to two Troopers and a Sergeant. He said, "This summer, the division lost Trooper Jeff Babcock. The Valdez Trooper position was also lost  -- which affects local Trooper coverage because the Valdez Troopers used to cover the Edgerton Highway. Now the Glennallen Troopers have had to add the Edgerton Highway, and Valdez, to their beat."

"It's not that they've taken the Troopers from us on purpose," added Tanner. "It's that we've had a great number of Troopers retire. There are big waves of Troopers coming up to retirement age at the same time." Meanwhile, it had been several years since there was a Trooper Academy at Sitka, Alaska, specifically to train Troopers. Local people would have to wait for the 3-month Academy to run its course, and then for the newly trained Troopers to gain experience on a city beat. The sergeant said it would be until spring when another Trooper would be sent to the Copper Valley.

Meanwhile, said Tanner, "I see a marked increase in our highway accidents. A lot of those are not getting the Trooper response. If there's only one on duty and he's in Paxson, and we have a motor vehicle rollover in Eureka where there's a minor injury – then oftentimes, the Trooper will not even respond. He's over 100 miles away, and he's the only one on duty; he can't get there. The person is left there to do his own police report. Often this causes problems with insurance companies." Plus, Trooper's couldn't write up press releases on accident they don't cover.

Tanner said that the same day a 12-year old girl died the month before in a well-publicized rollover that summer of 1993,  there were two other rollovers the same morning in the patrol area that the Troopers couldn't respond to. 

"It's a big, big problem," he had said. "it just shows how much we need a Trooper presence out on our highways. We need enforcement out here." But, in those days before the snow machine incident at Duffy's, the Troopers told the public that, in spite of the urgency of the problems and the hundreds of miles of roads in the area, no solutions seemed to be at hand. And no new Troopers were expected to come and help out. "They have no place to give us a Trooper from. People get real frustrated with this local office. Property crimes are not investigated as thoroughly as they would be with a bigger staff. It does put extra stress on the Troopers."

That interview with the sergeant was in August. And now it was November, and the situation was so dire that private citizens were having to step in and make arrests to take up the slack. After the citizens'  arrest in Slana, the sergeant now had the job of explaining the situation. 

He told the Copper River Country Journal that he considered Wilcox, Schrank and Alex to be extraordinarily brave – especially considering the fact that there was a shotgun and a .22 on Feyko's stolen snowmboile, which was parked right next to the outdoor pay phone. 

Both Gene Wilcox, of Midway Store, and Sgt Tanner agreed that the Alaska State Troopers wouldn't ask just anyone to make such a dramatic arrest.

"I would not have asked someone to hold them at gunpoint, had it not been two former Troopers," said Tanner. 

Bill Schrank was matter-of-fact. "It was always my philosophy to put yourself in a  position of superior strength, so they don't even think about fighting you."

Gene Wilcox agreed that experience counted. "We've done it before. For a Trooper, it would be routine," he said. "I wouldn't advise people to get involved to that degree, but I think the support, the observation, the reporting is very necessary. It is necessary for someone who observed something to contact the Troopers immediately, and to offer support in testimony. Ray's observations and reporting were the key to it, in my opinion."

Like everyone in the Copper Valley, Gene Wilcox understood exactly how difficult it was for the local Alaska State Troopers. He said, "The key thing the public must remember is there's very few Troopers for such a large, vast area. And that response time takes a little longer out here because  of road conditions. It's necessary for people to be understanding, That even though their needs are very important – and the Troopers appreciate that – response time is sometimes hindered because of other priorities. They're understaffed. In a lot of cases, they're just overworked. It's just a revolving door. There's no end ot it. It's crucial now, more than ever, to support the guys. They're under much more stress than in the past. Things have changed in Alaska."

In spite of the success, Sgt. Tanner was wary about encouraging this type of extreme measure. Normally, said Tanner, the Troopers were happy if they could enlist the help of people who could just keep an eye on a suspect. Under most circumstances, that would be adequate, he said.

Actually, though, roadhouses and lodges -- located as they were on exit routes throughout the state --  tended to have contact with fugitives and other criminals, he said.

Bill Schrank agreed. His sister, Thelma. once had to to stall two people in a stolen plane. In another incident, he said, there had been a bank robbery in Tok, up the road. The bank robber entered Duffy's and gave his briefcase full of money to the person beyond the counter, and asked to have it put in the back room. 

"Burgers and burglars are our specialty," Bill Schrank said.

Copyrighted by Copper River Country Journal, 1991-2017. All rights reserved. 

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Copper Valley Alaska EMT's. If You Didn't Help, Who Would?

EMT's In The Copper River Valley: Above & Beyond The Call Of Duty

Copper River EMT's in 2014, including Bill Bowler (left) who was an EMT
back in 1991, too. 

In a place like the Copper River Valley, helping people was a way of life. The obligation of stepping up to the plate was taken very seriously.

Take for example, emergency medical assistance. In 1991, Dozens of volunteers took courses spanning weeks in order to learn how to help their own famlies and their neighbors. 

A May, 1991 list was printed in the Copper River Country Journal, and revealed the extent to which locals were willing to put themselves on the line. 

Copper Center: Pinky Becker, Tom Carew, Bob Olson, Margie Steigerwald, Chuck Thomas.
Gakona: Danese Devenport, Suzanne McCarthy, Fran McMahan.
Glennallen: Cherie Ansell, Rocky Ansell, Bill Bowler, Terry Cunitz, Dan Hoadley, Patty Hutchings, Milt Peters, Sarah Rush, Larry Scribner, Win Stieffel, Tom Symmes, Mike Thomas, Darlene Windsor.
Kenny Lake: Rick Ackerman, Janelle Eklund, Jim Fant, Mollie Flack, Craig Gardner, Terry Gilmore, Mike Huntley,  Jim Jordan, Curt Lain, Sharon Lain, Janet Luce, Earl McClanahan, Crystal Pwoning, Daryl Schierholt.
Chitina: Catherine Fletcher, John Gilbert, Art Koeninger, Darlene Wright.
Cheryl Holland, Jim Manning, Elaine Manning, Jim Odden, Mary Odden, Kahren Rudbeck, Lisa Smayda. Tom Smayda, Joe Virgin, Peg Virgin.
Paxson: Gary Alcott, Stan Brown, Wanda Brown, Nate Callis, Wndy Callis, Larry Gondek, Hannah Hays, Bob Hays, Kris Howk, Murray Howk.
Slana: John Beeter, Marilee Bibeau, Jim Hummel, Mary Hummel.

This list may not mean much to you, the reader -- but, to residents of the region, it was a list of their neighbors. Men and women. Ordinary people: ordinary neighbors; teachers, grocers, gardeners, store owners, nurses....over 60 people, who intuitively understood it was important for them to be available in every portion of a far-flung community, to be at the ready. 

These were people who would never be "recognized" for their willingness to take time from their home-building, their families and their work.  There was no pay. No honor. No status. No financial reimbursement. But, each of them -- just to be trained as EMT's -- had to leave their homes on evenings and weekends,. They had to contemplate the possible problems they and their family might find themselves faced with -- such as drownings, frostbite, fire, car accidents, heart attacks, and exactly what they had to learn what they, personally, would have to do in each circumstance.

Then, after they successfully passed training tests, they basically offered themselves up on the front lines. When anything happened, they had to be ready to drive dozens of miles, to a neighbor's burning home. Or rush to a mangled car crash 30 miles from Glennallen. Or arrive at the site of a grizzly suicide -- of somebody they knew --  in a cabin up the road. Not every local EMT had what is known as the "first responder personality" -- that confident, efficient air that self-selected paid professionals have. A paid emergency fireman or ambulance drivers  in a large city somewhere, is drawn from a pool of millions -- and, if the work doesn't suit him (or her) they can move on to something else.

But in an all-volunteer corps of Copper River people, where one out of every 50 people (and that's counting men, women and children) were volunteers and underwent the arduous training as an EMT, there was no EMT personality  These people's personalities were a mixed bag -- with many ordinary moms mixed in -- women who lived out along the roads who were motivated by a desire to be able to keep their children alive, on their own, if necessary.

Their job -- if this could be considered a job -- was to arrive at their neighbors' homes  or car crashes, or at personal tragedies -- well before the Troopers showed up. 

It was a  commitment that involved a full understanding of the precariousness of life in general -- and Copper River life in particular. 

In the Copper River Valley, there was nobody else. If you didn't do it -- who would? 

Copyrighted by Copper River Country Journal, 1991-2017. All rights reserved. 

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The Ahtna Probably Played A Role In Russia Abandoning Alaska

How A Small Band Of Ahtna Villagers Beat Back The Russians In Interior Alaska & May Have Helped Pave The Way  

Celebrating 150 Years
Of American Rule

Far from the coast, in Ahtna Country, along the traditional border with the Tanana people, are some very old villages: Slana, Mentasta and Batzelnetus.

This is the historic heart of local Native legend. It’s the place where small cadres of Ahtna warriors played a very important role in America’s history. This is where Native villagers  beat back Russian soldiers who were trying to make inroads into their homeland. 

The Russians saw Alaska’s sea otters and coastal wildlife as raw material. Russians sailed on over, declared their ownership of Alaska lands, and began a wholesale slaughter of animals. They shipped their furs back to Moscow to be made into big fur hats. 

The Russians were brutal in every way. And the Ahtna, though separated from the coast by huge mountain ranges had heard the bad news about these invaders.

When various small groups of Russian soldiers forced their way into the Copper Valley, on exploratory expeditions, it never turned out well for the Russians. 

One Russian troop marched up the Copper Valley in the 1700’s. Vicious as ever, the Russians took to tying up and whipping the chiefs in every successive little Ahtna village, and stealing local women. Then they got to “Roasted Salmon Place” -- Batzelnetus. And that is where a small band of Ahtna killed them.

By 1848, the Russians had begun fretting about their deadly enemies, the British, who were headed across Canada on their own northern fur-gathering mission. The Russians tried again. They sent another small group of soldiers up into Ahtna Country. 

Once again, Russian soldiers slogged their way north across the wilderness. And they came to Slana, a little settlement very near Batzelnetus. 

Standing up to Russian soldiers; this was the danger that had been bred in the Ahtna people of this region for decades. In the night, as the Russians rushed out of their tents in their nightclothes, the Ahtna attacked. And hacked the Russian soldiers to death. 

Russians were getting the message. If they couldn’t make their way past a dedicated little band of Ahtna warriors, then they probably would have a hard time in the interior. Russia decided to cut their losses in Alaska. Only eleven years later, in 1859, Russia offered to sell Alaska to the United States. But this idea was put on the back burner when the Civil War erupted. After the war ended, William Seward, Secretary of State, bought Alaska for America. This was exactly 150 years ago, in 1867.

It took another 20 years for Americans to successfully breach the Copper Valley. 

The Ahtna people changed the course of American history, by fighting off the Russians with their own Homeland Security forces.  Without Ahtna valor, Russia might have not given up and gone back home. And Alaska would still be “Russian America.”

 Coming Soon: Bearfoot’s book of true Alaska stories 
Copyright, 2017. Northcountry Communications, Inc. 

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2017 Marks The 40th Anniversary Of The First Oil Running Through The Trans-Alaska Pipeline

The Trans-Alaska Pipeline 
Passes Through The Copper Valley

This summer marks the 40th anniversary of the construction of the Trans Alaska Pipeline. The pipe, which passes through Glennallen, on its way south from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, was built in the 1970's. The time surrounding the construction of the Pipeline was, in many ways, chaotic. It was similar to the Gold Rush boom times of the 1890's. 

Both the Gold Rush and the construction of the pipe were  eras of enormous change,

The adventurers who came in the 1800's -- and there were thousands of them -- were no more prepared for the harsh realities of Copper River Country than the thousands of midwesterners, suburban kids and would-be homesteaders who arrived 8 decades later, as the construction of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline catapulted this part of Alaska onto the national stage.

On the most basic level, living in the Copper Valley has always been something like being hurtled into a Boy Scout camp. But at 35 below zero. It's a world in which your new and unfamiliar life includes hauling water, chopping wood, and turning raw logs into homes…In both the Gold Rush and the Pipeline construction, challenges remained the same. There was nowhere to live.  Each time, you had to go it alone. In the 1970's,  people lived in mobile homes and trailers they had dragged to their lots near the road. They lived in buses and trucks And, like their 1890's predecessors, they lived in shacks and sheds, and half built cabins, with leaky roofs and uninsulated floors. Things hadn't changed. There were too many people, and too few homes -- just as there had been during the old Gold Rush of the 1890's. Same place. Same problems. And lots and lots of people.

Many of the newcomers who came to the Copper Valley during the 1970's were in search of work on the Pipeline. Any kind of work: "Bull cook" (meaning maid), or driving a truck, or cleaning up.,, It really didn't matter, because the pay was so good. The rush of would-be Pipeline workers was enormous, and men, women and children began pouring into the countryside, by the hundreds, and then by the thousands.  The pipeline company made camps for them -- "Man Camps."  When wives and kids tagged along, the incoming children filled up the schools.

Although lots of Pipeline workers were trained professionals, who had lived and worked in "The Oil Patch" -- in Texas and the Middle East -- a very large number who entered the Copper Valley were ordinary people,  with no particular education or experience -- but a strong desire to tap into the Pipeline and make money. 

The construction of the Pipeline was a difficult time. Medical services and ambulances -- operated by missionaries and volunteers -- were stretched to the limit. Overcrowded schools required trailer add-ons. Prices were high. The accidental death rate topped the nation. And, as is usual during boom times, prostitution and vice made its way into an otherwise sleepy little community. 

In the 1890's, when the Great Alaska Gold Rush swept through the Copper Valley, it was as if a cargo ship sank in the region. Early gold miners had brought with them tons of gear, which they left behind. That gear was picked up after they left, by the Ahtna people, who began using discarded hats, vests, American flags, boots, pots, pans, and tools. 

It was the same in the 1970's. Discarded gear worked its way into local culture, as Pipeline workers ditched brand new boots, saws, drills and other things, dumping valuable objects into Department of Transportation trash barrels along the roads. Locals found it worthwhile to scan the roadsides, trash barrels and dumps for something useful. The Pipeline provided lunches, including canned sardines. One local teacher retrieved an entire cupboard full of sardine cans for emergency use.  Local dumps filled up with the handy, sturdy wooden boxes that transported pipe. In Gakona, a BLM worker drove to the dump every night, picked up discarded 4 by 4's, took them home in his truck -- and then built himself a stacked log house from the beams. The large wooden boxes were used for garages and homes by locals. Even more valuable was the excess super high-density, high R-value, curved pipe insulation that was discarded and snapped up to insulate roofs. 

When the first oil moved through the Pipe in 1977, 40 years ago, the boom was over. But some Pipeline workers stayed. They finished building homes, raised families, joined the emergency medical service, formed businesses -- and made a life for themselves in this wild and elemental place. A place where they had intended to make a buck and then leave -- but which they found had kept them here. By taking hold of their hearts. 

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