[Warning: long post. It was a long day.]

The ship sang us to sleep our last night aboard. I’ve written about this before – Sikuliaq’s particular song, sometimes one note, sometimes two, coming up so slowly that you might not notice it at first beneath the everpresent gurgle of plumbing and hiss of forced air. But lying in my bunk, holding station as the dregs of the storm left us, there it was. It was a patient song, one that conveyed the deep visceral comfort of a Gregorian chant known so well that its delivery was more habit and instinct than conscious performance.

It had been a good trip; it had felt right to be along with these people, on this ship. There were my people – it didn’t matter that most were new to me – but we fell into easy conversation in the way folks who do whatever it is that we do. “Oh yeah – that happened to me, too, but when we were in New Caledonia.” “Revelle?” “Langseth.” The shared language of this improbable world, casual familiarity with places and things so rare and remote to most as to fade into uncertainty over whether they actually exist in this world, or are from a movie that everyone saw once.

It felt good to be one of these people. To nod and affirm – Oh yeah, same thing happened to us leaving Papeete, yeah on the trip down to PA (meaning Punta Arenas – of course, right?).

And now here we were, disembarking in Nome, itself a punchline for standup comics grasping for the utmost point of barren remoteness. For most. But for some onboard, a familiar old haunt, almost routine. “Airport for lunch?” (meaning, unspoken, Airport Pizza, it turns out). “Is Checker still who you call for a ride?” “Checker isn’t around anymore – you have Nick’s number?” “Yeah, somewhere. Who’s he driving for now?”

Across the gangway, the flat sun strangely fixed low in the sky low over town, as we stumble onto solid ground. Dock rock sets in immediately, and we sway there, if only in our minds, while we work out how to spend the day.

Nome does give the fair impression of a windswept Arctic outpost, even in late August. Decaying machinery, large and small, left to return at its own pace to the landscape it was brought out to subdue. Wide, muddy streets. An often wide, often muddy populace, preternaturally eager to smile and say hello as they pass. Even the children, a pair of young sisters, natives, barrelling down the alley on pom-pommed dirt bikes, look up, make eye contact, smile and wave as they go by.

It’s a natural adaptation to these places, of course. Someone’s furnace fails, or they slip on the ice, and if you’re not used to noticing them everywhere, you won’t notice that they’re not there until it’s too late to do anyone any good.

And it seems to have bred a genuine interest, even in the well-being of strangers.

Yes, Siberia

It was well before the planned noon rendezvous at Airport Pizza (obnote: nowhere near the airport, but as with everything here, the story is improbably good). Scoping Nome out through binoculars on the bridge the day before, Cate and I had picked out strange boxy structures on the hill above town. Miracle of the internet revealed them to be the Cold War-era White Alice antenna array, a popular hiking destination adjacent to the Anvil Mountain lookout point.

It would have been a two hour walk each way, so we decided to give Nick a call, and fifteen minutes later five of us were bouncing along the frontier road in the beat-up EZ Shuttle Van “’bout as far as I think before the road’s washed out up there,” getting local color and history from Nick as we went.

“‘Bout as far” ended up being not far from where the gravel started, giving us the next hour huffing our way up the steep service road on legs that hadn’t had anything more challenging to contend with for the past couple weeks than the single flight of stairs between main deck and the galley.

But the antennae, enormous, stark and eerily of another time, were well worth the effort. The path was lined with arctic willow, and the ground positively littered with ripe and juicy lingonberries and crowberries. We picked out tracks – dog or wolf? bear or lynx? and – oh look: a herd of musk oxen, kind of on the path we’d been planning.

Look – I can see Sarah Palin from here!

Now musk oxen are not known for subtlety. We had the proper inkling of good sense to give them a wide berth, but still had some awkward laughs over lunch (at Airport Pizza, of course) when we Googled proper behavior around them: “Musk ox do not bluff charge. If charged, put an obstacle between you and the animal, like a large rock, a vehicle or a building.” And “They are particularly irritable between August and October.”

They didn’t seem particularly irritable – they hadn’t formed a defensive circle, or even particularly turned to face us, but we still left the trail for a wide circular detour through the tundra (more lingonberries!) until we were well clear.

Rather than retracing our steps after the eponymous rock formation atop Anvil Mountain, we found ourselves contemplating the somewhat precipitous-looking slope where Nick had repeatedly insisted there was a shortcut. “Takes you right to the high school – big white building.”

It…didn’t particularly look like a path but, given present company, we opted for the controlled plummet, and soon enough did find ourselves on something path-like, though steep enough that it begged the question of who would be willing to use it.

Another call to Nick and his van when we reached the road, and we arrived for pizza at precisely the appointed hour.

Still with me? It’s still just after lunch. Most folks were flying out that evening, and after wandering Front Street for an hour or so, the few who were staying agreed to check in around dinner time.

When dinner time came, I found myself standing outside the somewhat legendary Board of Trade saloon looking for a place called “Brewery,” where the flurry of texts told me folks were gathering. Gentleman having a smoke outside suggested that what I might be looking for was “Breakers.” But it came out in the course of the conversation – remember: friendly populace – that he was a retired Iditarod musher, that he was fascinated about all things Antarctic, and that he happened to be the proprietor of the establishment we were standing in front of.

I mentioned that I’d read they had live music on weekends. Hugh replied that they had live music whenever they had someone who could play – what, did I play? – and within five minutes I’d promised that I would be back, after dinner with my guitar.

He was right about Breakers, of course. I caught up with the gang for conversation and a few beers. I didn’t want to upset the vibe, but felt obligated to mention my impromptu commitment a few doors down. They came close to standing up right then and piling out the door, but we settled on all meeting back at “The Board” at 8:30.

My new friend Hugh ushered me to the cavernous back bar where the Sikuliaq gang and a few others had installed themselves and asked if there was anything I needed. Nope? He tapered the jukebox off after the current song finished (“It would be wrong to cut Tom Petty off”), and I launched into my habitual opener of Eric Bogle’s “A Thousand Times No.”

There were hoots and cheers, there was loud singing along, and beer swung in time to the knuckledragging chorus. Hugh beamed proudly and offered me more beer.

In all, I probably played for 45 minutes before taking a break. More folks came back to listen, and the only competition I had was a sled dog puppy named Mamie that Hugh was planning to train up as his new lead dog. She was quite the show stealer.

After finishing with the obligatory “Sikuliaq Southbound,” I set down the guitar and settled in to join the Mamie lovefest. A young local fellow named Owen had arrived by then with his own guitar – a cream-colored Strat – and Hugh introduced him as the new incarnation of Stevie Ray Vaughn. Sikuliaq gang moved to the room with the pool tables, while Owen fired up his amp and let loose.

I guess it was about 10:30 when I checked my watch, made my excuses, hoisted a parting glass to Hugh (“You sure you don’t want a shot?”). Packed up and shuffled the half dozen blocks up to my “affordable rental accommodations,” to drift off into songless sleep. Tomorrow would be a long travel day home.