Electrical Pole

               In Alaska, it takes a long time to get anywhere. Need a doctor? Round trip: four hours. McDonalds? Three hours. Any resemblance of a real mall? Sixteen hours. As a kid, my brother Brian and I endured countless hours pinched behind our parents in the backseat separated by a pile of snacks, Mad Libs, crossword puzzles, and Game Boy paraphernalia. It was a small space to be confined next to a sibling for so many hours.

                Often, boredom led to bruising car games. Our favorite, and most often played, was called “Electrical Pole”. In most places, kids in the backseat can play “Popeye” or “Slug Bug”, where one gets popped in the upper shoulder at the sight of a car with one headlight or a Volkswagen Beetle, respectively. Unfortunately, in rural Alaska, there are not enough Beetles to ever have an effective round of Slug Bug and, honestly, cars are usually too few in number to play Popeye, one headlight or otherwise.

Electrical Pole, on the other hand, was a much more suitable and entertaining game. By all accounts, it was really just an excuse to hit each other. Hard. The rules were simple. Anything that could be seen out the car window was fair game. “Moose!” BAM! “Lake!” BAM! “Tree!” BAM! Moose, lakes, and, most notably, trees are all quite abundant in the Alaskan wilderness. The game earned its name because on the occasion that electrical poles were spotted, the nukes could be brought out and the dreaded “Boom Crane” punch could be used in an all-out assault. Most of the time, this game began with friendly sibling rivalry, but could escalate to full-on war if any invented rule happened to be violated and could end in black and blue shoulders, thighs, and feelings.

                On one trip, we were coming back from Whitehorse, which is the capital city of the Yukon Territory in Canada. A small town, by most standards, but for two Alaskan children it was a variable burgeoning metropolis. We had crossed back in to the United States, and were speeding down the Alaska Highway en route for home when the first Electrical Pole punch flew. “Mountain!” I shouted, followed by a swift right hook to Brian’s shoulder. I almost always sat on the passenger side of the car, which gave me a distinct power advantage since I was able to use my right arm more freely, despite this, retaliation was never far off. “River!” he shouted and whipped back with a mini-crane punch, which was kind of a back-handed thump that pivoted around the elbow. After a few volleys, a fragile truce was called so shoulder and leg muscles could take a break from the beating.

                About five miles down the road a trestle bridge came into view. It was gleaming in the Alaskan sunshine like a silver invitation for gratuitous attack. “Bridge!” I exclaimed and let loose the biggest, most powerful Boom Crane punch I could muster.

                “Ouch! You Moose Turd!” Brian yelled, “You can only do the Boom for electrical poles!”

                Not responding to his protest, I shouted, “Yellow line!” followed by the second most powerful Boom Crane released in the last ten seconds. Clearly this aggression would not stand and reprisal came in the form of a series of quick and brutal punches to my thigh.

                “Hey Turd Clown, you can’t hit without calling out an object first,” I replied valiantly followed by a hard clout to Brian’s shoulder.

                “Then you can’t either!” he hollered slamming his fist into my upper thigh.

                It was about that time we noticed the car was no longer moving forward. “Why are we stopped?” Brian and I asked simultaneously. My parents gave each other a glance that could mean nothing but trouble for both of us. A sly smirk formed on my dad’s lips.

“Get out,” he said, “you’re walking from here.” Brian and I looked at one another dumbfounded. We were easily 75 miles from the closest thing resembling civilization. Quickly we formed an allegiance as if we’d just left a United Nations council, but the front seat dictators would hear no testimony. We stood silently on the shoulder of the Alaska Highway as we watched our only hope of transportation, the white 1987 Ford Aerostar crest a hill and then disappear into the Alaskan wild lands. We were on our own in the wilderness with no choice but to walk while trying to ignore how many moose, bears, or other vicious beasts were lurking in the forest just beyond our field of vision.

We began our hike with me in front, the highway’s white line to our left and throngs of magenta fireweed lining the asphalt to our right. It was a bluebird summer day, rugged mountains rising on either side of the highway spread forth their majesty like crowns, patches of snow clinging to their crevices like white jewels. Trees filled the valley between their limbs reaching outward as if in reverence of mountain kings. Robins and chickadees sang and an eagle circled above our heads and we walked through that wonderland into unknown. The war that had caused our plight drifted into distant memory, as if its causes, its failed truces, its escalation, and eventual reasons for deportation were from a time so remote they may not have even occurred.

On we walked following the endless white line of the highway until we too eventually crested the same hill where we had last sighted the Aerostar. Below us and perhaps a half mile ahead sat the van waiting like a carriage drawn by white horses and driven by angels to give respite to our weary legs. We knew further consequences would likely ensue upon reaching the van, but we ran forward feeling the wind in our hair with cushioned seats on our minds. We had just about reached the rear hatch, when, to our horror, the van pulled away from our grasping hands. This time it stopped still in sight, but at least another half mile ahead.

Our walk continued for another ten or fifteen minutes. This time less appreciative of the surrounding natural beauty and more focused on the goal at hand. When we finally reached the old Ford, we lunged forward gripping the bumper like shipwreck survivors clutching surrounding flotsam. Afraid to let go, we stood there until we heard one of the front doors open. “Are you guys done?” we were asked.

“Yeah,” we responded sheepishly, “but we’re afraid to let go.”

“You’re invited back in, but the next fight you’ll be walking even longer!”

We climbed into the car and collapsed onto the seat like subdued prisoners and silently stared out windows in opposite directions. For about an hour, Alaska’s unspoiled wilderness blurred by as the car passed, but then we saw far on the horizon, a long line of repeating electrical poles.