Even if you’ve been reading the News-Miner for over 20 years, it seems unlikely you still remember the Flat Stanley story. However, a major new development recently occurred so I’ll give you a brief recap.
My sister Miki and I last saw our favorite cousin, Susan Collins, in the early 1980s. Twenty years later we knew her as Susan Domeyer with a family in Maine (and yes, distantly related to the Maine Senator). Her young daughter was in grade school at the time, and that’s when Flat Stanley showed up in the mail. For Devin’s school project, could we take a few photos of Stanley’s travels and then send the paper doll back?
Oh yes, delighted! We took photos of Flat Stanley tagging along as we mushed out the trapline, rode horses and hauled firewood. The assignment was a hit.
Fast forward another 20 years and Devin reappeared in person, now 28 and bringing with her not Stanley, but her older brother Cole, to experience bush life in person instead of vicariously through the penciled eyes of a paper doll.
The pair promptly proved themselves by working hard, being easy-going and tolerant of the ick factor, while giving us space when we needed it. Devin did mountains of dishes and Cole split mountains of firewood, but the biggest chore they did for us was to haul a mountain of feed to last 13 dogs and two horses for 10 months. They pulled over 90 sacks off several mail planes, loaded them into snow machine sleds, ran six miles to our home, and neatly stacked the feed in various sheds for us.
Our dogs had only seen a couple of visitors in the past year and when the siblings learned we wanted to prioritize socialization, the pair dove in with nuanced gusto, playing with friendly dogs while giving shy ones time to assess them. Being a girl, Devin enjoyed an edge on her brother but he rose to the challenge by becoming “the snack guy.” Young Junco warmed to them quickly, while his brothers Jaegar and Rufous were more wary. At first little sister Myrtle rarely emerged from her dog house, but she later agreed to lie behind the sofa listening to us gossip.
The young folks did dog-yard and horse chores, mushed dogs and chipped out water holes. I showed them the wood lots and they hauled many loads home for the woodshed and the dog-pot fire. They ventured with Miki to the local dump and Cole mushed out with her to pull the last traps.
We knew they’d love to see a moose or wolf, but a moose was unlikely and the wolf, I assured them, was not going to happen. We did hear a lynx call and spot ptarmigan, grouse, the gyrfalcon and a flock of jays mobbing a hawk owl. On the trail I constantly stopped, like a tour guide indicating Denali, to proudly point out various piles of scat, from bunny balls to moose-hair-packed wolf to the tiny black pellets of caribou.
Of course we encountered glitches. One snow machine quit when the spark-plug cap jiggled off because I’d neglected it. Another machine screamed with rage when Devin tried to accelerate before realizing she was also gripping the brake. A long hunk of firewood bounced into Cole’s face and dinged the bridge of his nose. When my snow machine brake popped off and it began sliding downhill, Cole acted like a movie cowboy pouncing on a team of runaway horses. Miki and I both called Devin “Susan” because she so resembled her mother.
Although we were all eager to see the trapline, spring floods were a concern. The trip was delayed while Miki made a quick trip to Fairbanks; she returned to report spotting a massive flood from the air. The water flowed over the ice for miles, and since the river forked into many channels our trail crossed not one but several overflows.
Even a day trip to view the flood was worth it, and we packed overnight gear just in case we could cross them to reach the Birch Cabin 15 miles out. Between my arthritis and having people to transport, I opted to travel with two snow machines instead of the dog team. Two miles out I stopped at Clear Creek and motioned to Cole, who pulled up towing Devin in his sled. “There’s our first obstacle,” I informed him with an annoyed gesture.
Cole gawked at the creek he’d crossed just last week. “YEESH!” he shouted at seeing two feet of barely-frozen overflow. Cutting a hole to check the ice, we found it sufficiently thick to hold the machines, but pressurized water beneath began flooding out the hole onto the surface. Despite being a novice with the machine, Cole did a fine job easing down the four-foot bank, skidding across the watery ice and popping up the far side.
Next up, Fox Slu seemed in fine shape except for a wide shallow flood upriver from where we turned off it. The next flood crossing was well frozen with 60 yards of glassy ice. A couple hours up trail, the final two creeks near the Birch Cabin showed almost no overflow, a lucky break since we’ve encountered waist-deep floods there in past years.
A delightful evening and busy morning at the cabin saw the trapping camp secured for the summer. Loading sleeping bags, gear and miscellaneous rubble into the sleds, we mounted up for the journey home. Miles flew by with only a few stops to watch ptarmigan and a couple hawk owls. The suspicious flood on Fox Slu had indeed moved downstream, but we skirted the edge along the cattails. Although Clear Creek appeared well frozen, I sent my companions down to check the ice, being suspicious of fresh flooding from the hole we’d cut the day before.
They found five inches of ice, but a foot of water underneath which billowed rapidly through the new hole to flood across the young ice. “Let’s get across quick!” I decided. In the lead, Cole dropped his machine over the bank and gently accelerated across the slick ice. He almost climbed the bank, but the track lost traction and the rig slowly slid back onto the wet ice.
After several futile attempts to push and pull it up, I unhitched the heavy sled, reattaching it with a 10-foot jerk rope and getting a bit wet in the process. (“This is why we carry dry socks and gloves,” I told them.) With Devin pushing, Cole pulling and me driving, the machine clawed up the bank and then popped the sled out.
Learning from Cole’s experience, I hit the power on my machine pretty aggressively, accelerating across the ice, slamming up the bank, catching air and crashing onto a stump. All safely across, we high-fived and happily roared home.
After a final day of wood-hauling and dog mushing we set off with our two relatives to meet their flight out. As the dog team topped Holek Spit, Miki stopped them abruptly to bang Devin’s shoulder. “There’s your wolf!” she sang. Although a scruffy specimen, the wolf crossing our trail a quarter-mile away held us spellbound for several minutes before we traveled on.
Hopefully the siblings left here in better shape than old Flat Stanley, who got shipped back with scotch tape patching a scar where he tore in half while enjoying a gallop in Miki’s hand. “He said it didn’t hurt, but maybe he was just being polite,” I wrote to Devin at the time.
Stanley may have paid a price for his visit, but the cousins’ visit that resulted from his adventures was priceless.
Julie and Miki Collins have written three books. They live in Lake Minchumina.
